


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by perkynurples



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Modern Royalty, Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 296,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Nada es Para Siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193339) by [Altair_Strauss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altair_Strauss/pseuds/Altair_Strauss)
  * Translation into Français available: [L'or n'est en rien éternel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281302) by [YacHaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YacHaer/pseuds/YacHaer)
  * Translation into Italiano available: [Niente Che Sia D'oro Resta](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229865) by [freya84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freya84/pseuds/freya84)



> I am so grateful to you guys, and I still can't believe you've already created so much fanart for this fic. It really keeps me going, and I need to share all these amazing creations with you!  
>    
>   
>  **Art Masterpost:**  
>     
> >> The supremely, amazingly talented hattedhedgehog and ewebean have both graced this fic with their art, [here](http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/tagged/Nothing%20Gold%20Can%20Stay) (check out that Thorin I mean dayum) and [here](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/74796492791/drew-some-character-sheets-for-this-wonderful) respectively.  
> >> [The first fanart this fic ever received](http://fishsicle.tumblr.com/post/70467285815) was by fishsicle, and it's still the most perfect depiction of the boys to this day.  
> >> More boys and a grumpy Thorin [here](http://shockabsorbers.tumblr.com/post/77196650124/some-doodles-of-modern-au-line-of-durin-a) and some disgruntled/sad Bilbo from the second to last chapter [here](http://shockabsorbers.tumblr.com/post/85640333735/i-need-to-channel-all-my-agony-for-sad-uncles)!  
> >> Totally kawaii Thorin in his Gala getup [here](http://springrollsforlunch.tumblr.com/post/83038559307/thorin-from-that-gala-scene-in-nothing-gold-can)  
> >> That one scene that a lot of you yelled at me about from the second to last chapter handled beautifully [here](http://radiorcrist.tumblr.com/post/85503046496/because-i-finally-found-my-tablet-pen-and-ive)  
> >> More Thorin and Bilbo at the Gala [here](http://little-big-spoon.tumblr.com/post/73292430445/full-view-recommended-bilbo-and-thorin-at-the) by Laura, who also happens to be the beta of this fic! Talk about being multitalented.  
> >> The progression of Bilbo and Thorin's relationship handled adorably [here](http://speakfriendandenter.tumblr.com/post/73804485551/a-dlj-lk-these-are-the-laziest-things-ive-ever)  
> >> Reading time with Bilbo and the boys in the park and Thorin eavesdropping [here](http://stickmansaga.tumblr.com/post/73527286334/and-so-whan-he-cam-to-joyous-garde-he-called-hys)  
> >> Bilbo ever the biscuit lover and Thorin ever the grumpy mountain in the cutest sketch [here](http://hackedmotionsensors.tumblr.com/post/77002727708/nothing-gold-can-stay-scribbles-its-so-good-fic)
> 
>  **Graphics:**  
>     
> >> Amazingly spot-on graphics by little-magnolie[here](http://magnolie.co.vu/post/73467537355/nothing-gold-can-stay-bilbo-thorin-au-part-1) and [here](http://magnolie.co.vu/post/73643377248/nothing-gold-can-stay-bilbo-thorin-au-part-1)  
> >> Utterly beautiful graphics by Janine aka frodno [here](http://frodno.tumblr.com/post/73609878438/nothing-gold-can-stay-a-hobbit-modern-au-by) and [here](http://frodno.tumblr.com/post/84225339093/nothing-gold-can-stay-for-annie-that-doesnt)  
> >> Blueberry muffins and the kitten remembered [here](http://cumbercrieff.tumblr.com/post/82450671533/nothing-gold-can-stay-by-perkynurples-bilbo)!  
> >> The very first, utterly beautiful one [here](http://avelinas.tumblr.com/post/73306202263/nothing-gold-can-stay-a-modern-bagginshield-au)  
> >> A set of beautiful and dedicated ones [here](http://m1b1rd.tumblr.com/post/75036517201) and [here](http://m1b1rd.tumblr.com/post/76517483425) and [here](http://m1b1rd.tumblr.com/post/84352931895)
> 
>  **Fanmixes:**  
>     
> >> [here](http://dragonslaeyr.tumblr.com/post/75664760961)  
> >> [and here](http://wanderingchild.tumblr.com/post/79265360086/nothing-gold-can-stay-a-fanmix-for-the-professor)  
> >> [also here](http://facepalmconquistador.tumblr.com/post/83931289697/i-finally-managed-to-finish-my-thilbo-fanmix)  
> >> [and here](http://tinystork.tumblr.com/post/85111812701/leaf-subsides-to-leaf-a-mix-for-the-absolutely)
> 
>  **NGCS is now available as a[SCREENPLAY!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1amP1RNOK1Df1CyZeieNbhtRJZf4HvNVvmEoF9hLuN2o)** Hats off to the wonderfully talented [Lily](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com) for all the effort she put into condensing this story, expanding on it, building up wonderful backstories, and perhaps most notably of all, clearing up A LOT about the Pattern and everything around it! Please go compliment her if you check out the screenplay, she really has done an amazing amount of work on it.

There are times Bilbo Baggins sorely wishes he could live in a hole – times like these, when it's raining cats and dogs, the coffeemaker is broken, and his car is dead, which means he will have to take the bus home. That is, after he's done with marking this newest batch of papers. There is a reason why he decided to stay at work a little longer today, but he can't for the life of him remember it. Oh, yes, it probably had to do with the fact that it started pouring the second he announced the end of his last lecture.

Tapping his pen on the table in a rhythm that tries and fails to be quicker than the constant rapping of raindrops, he exhales raggedly, glaring at the leftover coffee in his cup, and struggles with a difficult decision – that is, whether to finish it right now and be coffee-less for the remainder of the afternoon, or let it go cold, forget about it, and complain later. Oh, yes, life would definitely be easier if he lived in a hole.

Nothing shabby, mind you, oh no – he would make it the coziest hole ever, with numerous rooms, and large, soft armchairs, and, yes, definitely a pantry; oh, and a real, proper fireplace, and wooden floors... he stops himself just in time, his pen starting to scribble his architectural plans all over Becky Higgins' essay. Oh, wonderful, yet another one about The Faults In Our Stars. How much has it been – six, so far, this quarter? He never should have included it in the syllabus. _Or, better yet, you never should have settled for teaching literature,_ a tiny nagging voice remarks, but he ignores it, fiercely, and pushes his glasses up instead, leaning back in his chair and delving into yet another account of how John Green changed a life.

It seems that at least some things are going in his favor, though, because he is soon interrupted by the phone ringing – it's the receptionist from the main building, strangely enough.

“Yes?”

“Professor Baggins? You have a visitor.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

“He won't tell me,” the young woman – Janine, was it? – says entirely too nervously for Bilbo's tastes, “he says he's a friend. And that it's important.”

“Well, does he look dangerous to you?”

“No, I... well, he's old. Like, really old,” the receptionist whispers almost conspiratorially, “very tall. He's wearing a hat.”

“A hat.”

“Yes! Can you please come over now?”

“I'll be there in a moment,” Bilbo replies, and frowns at the phone when the receptionist hangs up.

He can't for the life of him think of any old friend wearing a hat, but finding out what's going on definitely beats his current occupation. Oh, and there is a coffeemaker in the small kitchen in the main building, isn't there? Well, that's decided.

 

The corridors are quiet as a vast majority of lectures is over now – it's been over a year now, but Bilbo still marvels at the fact that it's only slightly past four in the afternoon, and all the students have gone home. _A regular high school,_ he reminds himself, _you're on a regular public high school now._ He's not by any means a snob, but he knows he enjoyed the atmosphere at his previous workplace a great deal more, at least up to a certain point...

“Bilbo Baggins! Well, look at you!”

Utterly lost in his thoughts, Bilbo has reached the main building's foyer almost without noticing, and the man waiting at the reception rises from the leather sofa there and makes his way towards him, hand outstretched.

“Yes, can I help you?” Bilbo offers, shooting a look at the receptionist, who merely shrugs.

“That remains to be seen,” the man smiles, and when he takes off his hat, recognition finally kicks in.

“...Gandalf? Is that really you?”

...And apparently it is – of course it is. He laughs heartily and envelops Bilbo's hand in both of his, and, well, it's been so long Bilbo can barely believe it. The memories of Bree Boarding school flood his head immediately, the fond ones all from the time Gandalf (should he be calling him Professor Grey, out of respect? He dismisses that quickly.) was still Principal.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he wonders, genuinely amazed, and Gandalf simply laughs some more.

“I should ask you the same! Is this hellhole the only school that would have you? Oh, no offense, miss,” he waves at the receptionist, who's gaping at them quite incredulously.

“Actually, yes,” Bilbo mutters, and Gandalf frowns at him, but only manages to hold the laughter in for a fleeting moment, and Bilbo grins.

“Will you tell me what you're doing here if I make you a cup of coffee?” he offers.

“I suppose this... beautiful, cozy little institution doesn't have its own cafe?” Gandalf wonders loudly, and Bilbo laughs before he can stop himself.

“No, it really doesn't, I'm afraid,” he says, “come with me.”

 

With the coffeemaker cheerfully whirring away in the thankfully deserted kitchen near the chemistry labs, Bilbo and Gandalf sit down at a table by the window – the rain doesn't seem quite so horrible now, Bilbo realizes, as he feels the excitement at seeing his former employer and mentor once again, rising.

“You know,” Gandalf remarks, searching for something in his sleek handbag, “just because you were fired for being... what was it, 'too rebellious'?... doesn't mean you should stop.”

Bilbo frowns.

“If you're suggesting I took this job because I _wanted to..._ ”

“No, no, nothing like that. I know Saruman took it upon himself to ruin your chances for a career quite extensively.”

Gandalf says it matter-of-factly, as is after all his nature, and Bilbo is pleasantly surprised at his own lack of bitterness about the whole thing – the knowledge that he was in the right, doing what he did towards the end of his days at Bree, was always enough. In a way, he knew right after Gandalf resigned and Saruman came, that things would only go downhill from there. He was immensely sorry to leave Bree's students behind, but they were the only enjoyable part of the whole messy business in the end, and really, the personal struggle he'd have to undergo to stay behind just for them would not have been worth it.

He should really write that down sometime, and read it before he goes to bed on dreary days like these.

“Why are you here, Gandalf?” he asks, perhaps a bit more sternly than he'd intended, but it doesn't seem to faze the old man – he merely smiles brightly, and pulls a thick leather binder out of his bag.

“Ah, there we go,” he states, pulling out a paper folder and sliding it on the table towards Bilbo, “tell me, how much do you know about Erebor?”

“The country?” Bilbo mumbles, flipping the folder open, but closing it again the very next second, because he notices the beautiful coat of arms on the front page.

“Yes, the country,” Gandalf replies, and when Bilbo looks at him, he is gazing at him expectantly – later on, Bilbo thinks he should have recognized it then, the entirely too dangerous gleam of excitement in his eyes.

“Oh, erm...” he clears his throat, “it's a, a northern-European monarchy, I believe, somewhere between Switzerland and Italy, I think? Rather tiny.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf nods, “it's about the size of your ordinary American capital, if it weren't for the mountains. A part of the EU, but still retains its historical currency – the crown, I believe it is called. To that effect, its GDP is among the five highest in Europe. Suffered a rather memorable coup d'état twelve years ago, but has been among the most politically stable places to be ever since.”

“Fascinating,” Bilbo utters, getting up to prepare the coffee, “but why are you telling me all this? ...You still take two sugars, no milk, correct?”

“Correct. And I'm telling you all this because there might be a job opening for you there.”

Bilbo laughs, he can't quite help it.

“In _Erebor?_ ” he says, “Gandalf, you know I'm all about new experiences, but I'm not sure uprooting my entire life here and going halfway across the world qualifies.”

“Oh, I'm pleased to see you still have a penchant for the dramatic,” Gandalf chuckles, “may I remind you we are in England? It's a five-hour flight at most. And I haven't even told you what the job is.”

Bilbo sighs deeply, sets their cups of coffee on the table and sits down, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright then,” he says indulgently, “tell me what the job is.”

“The king is looking for a personal tutor for his nephew, the heir to the throne.”

For a few silent moments, Bilbo merely stares at him.

“Well, that's... not exactly up my alley,” he remarks at last.

“Oh, nonsense. Read the file. The boy is thirteen years old, and I'm given to understand he's quite charming-”

“Gandalf...”

“-and the money is rather excellent, just between you and me. I do think it would be a nice opportunity to-”

“ _Gandalf._ ”

The man falls silent, and the small, steady smile on his lips is now somewhat obnoxious, Bilbo realizes.

“Why me?” he asks simply, “why are you offering this to me, of all people?”

“I just thought you could use a little... excitement,” Gandalf replies entirely innocently.

“I get excited plenty, believe me.”

“Really.”

The tone is far too familiar, and Bilbo catches himself frowning as he leans back and wraps his arms even tighter around his body – he has no patience for Gandalf's judgments, he thinks.

“I will have you know I am perfectly happy here,” he mumbles, gazing out of the window, because he knows already that Gandalf will be everything but convinced, “the school is nice enough, and so is the city. The... the pay isn't exorbitant, but this job hardly produces rich people. And I like it. The job. So... in conclusion, I'm – I'm _very_ glad to see you again, Gandalf, and the offer is very... very generous, but I'm afraid I'm not interested.”

When he does brave looking at Gandalf, he sees that the old man isn't angry, or amused, or anything similarly easy to deal with – no, he merely looks disappointed, and oh, what did Bilbo do to deserve this?

“Well, I see you've changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better,” Gandalf says simply, “I remember a time when you would like nothing better than to, as you say, uproot your whole life and go halfway across the world in search of new experiences.”

Bilbo groans, but apparently, Gandalf is not finished.

“You organized a student uprising at one of the top ten schools in the country, for crying out loud!” he continues with a fervor that makes Bilbo all but nauseous, “you ran an illegal library out of your office, remember? Oh, yes, I know about that, Saruman was very vocal with his complaints.”

“Yes, and Saruman was also the one who fired me over all that, and more.”

“And more!”

“Gandalf, _please!_ ”

The old man raises an eyebrow, and Bilbo realizes he has somehow uncurled himself and leaned forward, his hands in the air to articulate his point. He retreats quickly, and Gandalf tsk-tsks.

“Well, I'm glad there's at least some spunk left in you,” he offers, and Bilbo blushes, draping his large sweater closer around his shoulders, as Gandalf smiles kindly, almost sadly.

“I would hate to watch it all go to waste.”

He reaches for the mystery file, and Bilbo's gaze shoots to it immediately, on a momentary impulse to grab it and keep it – he sees Gandalf's smile widen, and slumps in the chair, sighing deeply, managing a half-hearted scowl.

“At least let me treat you to a dinner,” Gandalf offers, and, pointing out of the window, “your decision might be influenced by the fact that I have a car. You do so hate the rain.”

Bilbo pfft's.

“Of all the memorable things about me.”

Gandalf chuckles and finishes his coffee, and Bilbo very pointedly _doesn't_ watch the tip of the file's smooth brown paper peeking out of his bag almost tauntingly.

“You know,” the man says, standing up and putting on his coat, “it rains progressively less in Erebor, and the temperatures are _indefinitely_ less fickle than-”

“Stop it.”

  
And he does, surprisingly enough. They have a lovely dinner in The Green Dragon, one of Bilbo's favorites, and spend the evening revealing as much about the years in which they haven't seen each other as they're comfortable with – Bilbo begins to realize the striking lack of the remarkable in his own life, though, as Gandalf talks of visiting Peru, and buying an apartment in New York, not two weeks before he learned that a new dig was opening in Athens – his former students (and colleagues even, Bilbo among them) used to jokingly call him Indiana Jones Senior, and really, it seems like his life never runs short of its supply of excitement. But Bilbo is not jealous. Certainly not – he _is_ happy. Wishing to go and see the world is more like a... a five-year plan. Ten-year plan. Something he'll devote himself to when he has more time, more money, once he's settled in this position. At Bree, him and the students got to go abroad at least twice a year, but one simply can't have everything, now, can they?

And so he is perfectly happy with just nodding along as Gandalf spins his stories, and bids farewell to him fondly at the doorstep of his home.

“How long will you be staying in town?”

“Not long at all, I'm afraid,” Gandalf says, “I'm flying out on Friday.”

“Oh? Where to?” Bilbo asks politely, scrutinizing the back alley for any of the neighbors' cats attempting to sneak in when he's not looking and find shelter from the rain.

“Erebor,” Gandalf replies, and when Bilbo looks at him, he's smiling quite innocently.

Bilbo hates that.

“...Really?” he utters noncommittally, then, grinning nervously, “will you be taking that job?”

“Ha, certainly not,” the man chuckles, “no, I'm interested in the mountains. They've discovered an entirely new vein of mithril recently, and a number of cave paintings along with it! Obviously I need to take a look.”

“Obviously,” Bilbo mutters, full of suspicion.

Gandalf gazes at him, and Bilbo gazes back. Bilbo narrows his eyes. Gandalf's eyebrows arch up.

“I...” Bilbo starts.

“Well then, I should be off,” Gandalf cuts him off entirely too cheerfully, extending his hand to him, “it was an immense pleasure seeing you again, Bilbo! Take care of yourself. Live a little!”

“I...” Bilbo tries again, frowning further.

But Gandalf's face is filled with nothing but seemingly genuine kindness, and Bilbo exhales, nodding and shaking his hand.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he states, “have... have fun. I do hope we'll get to see each other again soon!”

“Certainly, certainly!”

Bilbo can't help himself, he looks back over his shoulder as he enters his house, but Gandalf is already getting into his car, and Bilbo sighs, raking his hand through his hair. He's being silly, of course – he asked Gandalf to let the whole job-abroad thing go, and he did. People do that. It's only polite. Yes.  
  
He finds the thick, luxurious file with the silver-blue coat of arms on top stuffed in between the binders in his bag about ten minutes later, and realizes it's been very, very long since he's felt an urge to kick something. It doesn't help that it contains an obnoxiously pink stick-it note reading the words _'Live a little'_ and that Gandalf responds to his 'Did you plant your bloody file in my things??!!' (he feels the two question marks and exclamation marks really _are_ necessary) with a simple 'Indeed I did' with a smiley face attached. Bilbo despises smiley faces.

  
He reads it nevertheless. It proves impossible not to, even though it's just lying there on the table, doing absolutely nothing, as he watches the late night news. He keeps stealing glances at it until finally, he relents with a groan and reaches for his glasses.

He inspects the coat of arms first – it's rather beautiful, a silver-black eagle on a rich blue background, and it reminds Bilbo of all those obscure European royal families he used to pay so little attention to back in university. What was the name of the royals in Erebor again...? Oh, the Durins, yes, that's right – he is reminded on the very first page he sees, containing a short account of the family's history in beautiful writing. He skims that, wondering what's so incredibly hard to understand about the job offer so that it needs to be described on, how many...?

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters as he flicks through the pages, each neatly numbered and going up to seventy two.

But he realizes what's going on, quickly – it's the contract itself. An actual business contract, and a painstakingly written one at that, on seventy two bloody pages, with... yes, with the room for a signature at the very end. What on earth did Gandalf expect him to do with this?! Actually sign it? Mildly distressed, he all but throws the file away, texts Gandalf a dry ' _No way this is happening, sorry.'_ and goes to sleep feeling rather uneasy for some reason that night.

  
The next day is horrible, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise. Half his morning class have 'forgotten' that it is time to hand in their essays, and they have the audacity to try and play it off as 'being generally too busy with everything', which results in Bilbo being entirely too harsh with them and walking away feeling like the villain. Then a junior starts vomiting in the middle of his lesson on Shakespeare and he waits for the school nurse with her even though there are twenty kids left unattended in the classroom, and his various colleagues keep walking in and offering their sympathies, and he watches the unceasing rain behind the windows of the infirmary, and at last, lets himself wonder if this is really the thing he went to Oxford for.

He never really believed in destiny, or, or... omens that would show him where his life was supposed to go. Doing what one loves, that he could get behind. Being comfortable in one's skin, finding a job that's not horrible, going to bed at a reasonable hour. _'Be your own hero',_ his mother used to say, bless her. She didn't believe in boredom – it was something that came from not knowing what one wants, Belladona would tell him. _'Make sure you're always doing what you want to be doing,'_ she would remind Bilbo over and over again any time he stopped by for tea. She was brilliant at the sort of vague, general advice one would find in a self-help book, and she loved giving it; and Bilbo loved her for it.

She was the first one he came out to, sixteen years old and utterly terrified, and within the first few months, she filled his head with so many generic lines about equality and bravery and inner beauty, that he somehow managed to stop feeling like the odd one out, and started feeling like someone with something to say. She made sure he retained that idea, and fought his way to the top of the field he excelled at, and she did it effortlessly, so that Bilbo really did feel like he was just being his own hero the whole time.

The last Belladona saw of her son's successes was when he landed the job at Bree, not two years after gaining his doctorate... She succumbed to cancer not long after that, and it was probably for the better, Bilbo thinks bitterly – at least she didn't have to watch him go from 'oh yes, such bright future ahead for that lad' to 'all that wasted potential, such a shame'. She would probably be mortified had she learned that they almost didn't hire him, here at Westfarthing High, for being 'overqualified'.

And had she been here now, watching him mope over a fresh stack of poorly worded homework, she'd probably smack him over the top of his head with a dishcloth. He could really use that. He could really, really use that.

  
He gets home utterly knackered that day, tired of the rain, tired of people, and, most of all, tired of himself. He almost forgets to pick the mailbox, and simply tosses its contents on the sofa, going about fixing himself dinner. The phone rings, and he takes a second to decide whether he wants to answer it at all, what with the eggs frying so nicely, then groans when he reads the name of the caller, and thinks, _well, better be done with it._

“Hello, Aunt Lobelia.”

“Bilbo, darling! How are you?”

Her voice is as shrill as ever, tone blatantly uncaring, and Bilbo knows that if he endures more than two minutes of it, he will pay with a headache.

“I'm fine, thank you. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm calling because... Surely you remember!”

Bilbo blinks mutely out of the window.

“I'm sure I don't, forgive me,” he utters dryly, “what is this about, then?”

“The birthday party!” Lobelia giggles with an intensity that threatens to burst poor Bilbo's eardrums, “Eglantine is turning forty! Your _other_ Aunt? You wouldn't forget, would you?”

Bilbo angles the phone away from his ear shamelessly as Lobelia graces him with another burst of what she's surely hoping is gleeful giggling, but sounds to Bilbo more the neighbor's tomcat complaining when he refuses to let him in.

“Yes, yes, of course I remember,” Bilbo mutters, carefully operating the pan with one hand only, sliding his eggs onto a plate.

“Excellent!” Lobelia shrieks, “this Sunday! We do so hope you'll be coming! We haven't seen you in years! _Years!_ ”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Aunt,” he mumbles, sinking onto the sofa and sorting through the pile of mail next to him to kill time before Lobelia is finished.

“Well, would it kill you to sound at least a little excited, darling?” she carries on, “we _are_ family, you know!”

“Yes, yes, I'm sorry, it's just that my day hasn't been particularly stellar, and... surely you'll... understand...”

  
But he loses track of what he was about to say, because he finds a strange envelope among the usual junk adverts and monthly bank statements. It's long and crisp white, without a single letter signifying it is in fact addressed to Bilbo. Vaguely, he registers that Lobelia has resumed her rant about 'family values' and 'quality time', and he searches the general chaos of the table for a letter opener. Granting Lobelia a second of his attention, he learns that his little cousins would be thrilled to play the piano for him, and he offers a noncommittal 'Yes, yes, lovely' and places the phone on the table gingerly, Lobelia's voice like the distant buzzing of an annoying insect, and goes about opening the envelope carefully.

Out slides out a long stripe of thick, luxurious folded paper, and it takes Bilbo a second, but then...

“Oh, you have _got to be kidding me!_ ”

The phone goes silent, and he hears a demanding '...Bilbo?!'. He fumbles with it, suddenly enraged.

“I'm sorry, Aunt Lobelia, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to call you later. Or, you know what, I won't. I'll see you Sunday. Alright? Alright. Bye bye.”

And he ends the call with a furious groan, and goes about dialing a different number. Apparently Gandalf is 'currently speaking to someone else', and Bilbo comments that with a high-pitched, angry giggle, and types a fervent text message instead.

“A _plane ticket?!_ ” he exclaims the words he's typing out loud, “ _really?!_ ”

He simply sits glaring at it for what might be minutes or hours, remembering the eggs at one point and all but swallowing them in one outraged bite, until finally, the phone rings again.

“Gandalf!” he all but cries.

“Hello, Bilbo, dear fellow!”

“Oh, don't you ' _dear fellow'_ me! You left a bloody plane ticket in my mailbox!”

“Did I?” Gandalf chuckles.

“Yes, yes, you did! I'm looking at it right now! One-way to Erebor, Friday, 10am! _Friday,_ Gandalf! It's Tuesday now! Honestly, what were you expecting?!”

“Are you coming?” the man asks simply, and Bilbo _hears_ it in his voice, the sly smile.

“Am I... Do you really think I'd pack up and leave in two days to fly god knows where for a shady job you offered me out of the blue?”

“Well, I'd hardly call it shady, you _would_ be working for royalty, you know-”

“But I won't! I won't be working for royalty, Gandalf!” Bilbo cries almost desperately, “all of this... it's ridiculous! I don't understand why you came to me in the first place, of all people! I don't know what's gotten into you, but I'm really... I'm not the man to just recklessly abandon everything on a whim and go live halfway across the world-”

“It's just a five hour flight, I told you-”

“Gandalf, _stop._ I'm begging you! This has gone too far! You should have looked elsewhere, and I'm sorry, really, I am, but... good day!”

And with that, he ends the call resolutely and all but tosses the phone away, flinging his head back and groaning. It takes him a good long while, fuming in a rage he hasn't felt in years, before he finally settles down, pinching the bridge of his nose and deciding he's to riled up to go to sleep any time soon, and so he might as well try to remedy this whole mess with a nice cup of tea.

  
It's infuriating, he thinks as the kettle boils and he paces in his small living room, it's _unfair._ Gandalf appearing out of nowhere, interrupting his peace like that! Who does he think he is, honestly? He stands in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, and watches the unceasing rain cascading off the low roof of the backyard garage, and the lids of the garbage cans; watches the two stray cats huddled together in the one dry corner by the staircase leading to the cellar, and manages to wrap himself up in quite the solemn pathos before the kettle whistles.

Obviously he doesn't need this, he tells himself, turning on the TV and wrapping himself in an additional blanket to fend off the cold, clutching the steaming cup close to his chest. Obviously. He's happy, he's settled, he's not going anywhere. There's the family thing on Sunday, too, yes, of course...

“Oh, you're _joking,_ ” he groans.

The late night news are broadcasting a report about Erebor right before his very eyes, about stock market values or whatever, and he scoffs and fumbles for the remote, promptly switching the channel and settling on a cooking show. It lasts about ten seconds, before his eyes trail to the plane ticket on the table, and the file below it, and he decides there's no harm in... well, watching TV, and switches back to the report.

“ _-and the crown is expected to rise in value steadily during the next quarter. With me is Eric Meyers, President of the London branch of the Royal Bank of Erebor – Mister Meyers, this past year has seen an increase in stock value that is nothing short of incredible. Some say that Erebor will not retain its currency for long, but so far, it seems like the logical thing to do..._ ”

Bilbo is hardly interested in the financial talk, but fortunately, it is accompanied by footage of what must be some sort of an official statement by the King, the sharply dressed man speaking to a large poll of politicians and journalists.

“ _The King, Thorin II, spoke yesterday about the country's need to protect its historical values, the currency dating all the way back to the 15_ _th_ _century being one of them-”_

He is very... well, kingly, Bilbo decides, sipping on his tea carefully – a handsome, stern face with a full beard that only serves to further sharpen his cheekbones, his eyes a piercing, striking blue even on the recording, and... Bilbo has to laugh at himself – obviously a very handsome King is not enough of a reason to just up and leave for Erebor. He stretches his arms and yawns. Yes. He will go to sleep now, and all will have been forgotten in the morning. Oh, right, the plane ticket and the contract... Realizing he doesn't have to be at work until eleven, he firmly decides to deal with all that in the morning, and if he dreams of another country somewhere far away to the east, with mountains, and palaces, and, and... modern royalty that night, no one can really blame him.

  
Looking back, he will never be able to tell what exactly it was that made him decide at last. Perhaps he was lost the moment he decided not to throw the plane ticket and the thick file into the dustbin and be done with it. Perhaps, more likely, it was the rain, never stopping, and the numerous puddles he managed to step into on his way to work that day. Or maybe it was all the Principal's fault, calling him into her office and explaining at length why it would be wiser for him to work half-time starting the next quarter, since he 'only teaches Literature, after all'.

The last straw might have been the article he read over Wednesday dinner, about three of Bree's students writing award-winning essays and getting to travel to France with their Professor (Bilbo used to be that Professor) – he genuinely does not know.

What he does know is that the strange mixture of fright, excitement and stubborn anger he feels as he marches towards the Principal's office on Thursday, not twenty four hours before the flight for Erebor leaves, his notice in his, entirely too steady, hands, is something he hasn't experienced since he handed that very same notice to a different Principal a couple of years ago.

It's the terrifying feeling of doing something right, and of knowing there is absolutely no turning back. It's silly, and reckless, and horrible. It's liberating. He knows for a fact he will never step foot into Westfarthing High again, and he knows he will not make the birthday party on Sunday, and he knows he will not be there to pick up his car from the repair shop next week, but he doesn't care.

Oh, he's being terribly, terribly selfish, but he fights off every panic attack that threatens to overwhelm him that afternoon by blaring oldies from his small kitchen radio and packing everything into the only two suitcases he owns. He might not have a good suit for whatever will be expected of him. Pretty much all his ties are polka-dotted, as are a lot of his socks. He hasn't had a haircut in weeks, and he only has that one oversized pair of glasses, and there is no way all of his books will fit... Should he take his favorite blend of tea with him? And his mother's doilies? Oh, he certainly must take those...

It's well past midnight when he finally allows himself to collapse on the sofa, only to jump right back up again and go search for his phone to order a taxi for the morning. ...There. It's done. His fate is quite literally sealed, and he feels a slight tremor starting in his hands – he crawls into bed feeling somewhat faint, but sleep eludes him for hours. He lies on his back with the blanket pushed up to his chin, listens to the rain that hasn't stopped for days now, and realizes he will probably be very, very sorry at some point in the not-so-distant future, but right now, against his better judgment, he is nothing but sinfully exhilarated.

  
The lack of sleep proves a hindrance as he hauls his suitcases to the taxi that's been blaring its horn for the past ten minutes, and he slumps inside, shivering from the cold and dead certain he's forgotten at least a dozen absolutely essential things.

“Hm?” he mumbles, his eyes glued to his small green door.

“I said, where to?” the taxi chauffeur repeats impatiently.

“Oh, right,” Bilbo mutters, clutching his bag with the plane ticket stored safely inside, “the airport, please.”

  
Of course Gandalf finds him right after he checks in, looking dapper with his long coat, a hat and a matching ascot, and the sleek walking cane in his hands – that, and entirely too chipper for Bilbo's tastes.

“I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life, Bilbo Baggins,” he says cheerfully, leading them to their gate, and Bilbo very nearly groans.

“Save it. I slept for about twenty minutes, and honestly, I'm still not entirely sure what I'm doing here! You manipulated me into this!”

“I did no such thing,” Gandalf smiles, “and come now, it'll be an adventure!”

“Oh, yes, brilliant,” Bilbo sighs, his only concern at the moment being the time he will have to wait before burying himself in the comfortable seat on the airplane and making at least an attempt at sleeping.

However, the panic and self-loathing over making horrible last-minute decisions has not kicked in quite yet, and so he simply rubs his eyes and hurries to match Gandalf's long stride, managing a crooked smile when the man grins at him.

“You'll do just fine, you'll see,” Gandalf states, “you'll have the time of your life!”

Bilbo sighs, deeply and profoundly.

“Right, well,” he says, “just promise me it won't be raining in Erebor.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is, of course, raining in Erebor. The plane sets down after a flight that Bilbo thankfully managed to sleep through, and for a fleeting, miserable moment, he thinks they never set off from England, the sky the same shade of bleary grey, the rain whipping the airport with the same unceasing intensity.

Drowsily, he follows Gandalf through the checkouts and all the way to baggage claim, squinting his eyes at the numerous signs they pass, written in both English and Khuzdul, which is one of those languages he'd only ever skimmed, but perhaps shouldn't have – it has its own font, resembling Cyrillic here, and Hebrew there, and soon, he is too preoccupied with the strangely curved letters, and trying to remember the oddities in the alphabet, to notice that they've come to stand before the conveyor belt that will soon bring their luggage.

“I believe someone will be waiting for you,” Gandalf says, and, at Bilbo's frown, adds more clearly, “to pick you up. With a nice sign and everything, I imagine.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, suddenly sorely aware of the stiffness that has at some point crept into his back, “right, yes, of course. And you... I assume you won't be coming with me...?”

“I'm afraid not,” Gandalf chuckles, “I told you already, I'm interested in the-”

“The mountains, yes, yes, I remember,” Bilbo waves his hand, “are you ever going to tell me what's really going on?”

“What do you mean?” Gandalf muses perfectly innocently.

Bilbo frowns at him some more as he stretches his back.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he groans, “you appear out of nowhere with the strangest offer I've ever gotten, and... How did you come by it, anyway? Do you know them, the royal family? And are you actually here to see _the mountains?_ ”

“My dear Bilbo,” Gandalf laughs heartily, “I promise you there is no foul play involved, nor will there ever be. I am... acquainted with the King, have been for some time. I offered him my help with searching for the right person to tutor his nephew, and I chose you.”

“Without my knowledge!” Bilbo whines, “what if I'd decided not to come?”

But Gandalf's eyebrows merely arch up, and Bilbo sighs, exasperated. He's quite sure  _something_ is going on behind his back still, but right now, he's also quite sure he's too tired to care. Besides, his suitcases arrive then, followed closely by Gandalf's, and he's beginning to get tangibly anxious as they make their way to the arrivals hall.

“I'll come see you before I leave, Bilbo,” Gandalf tells him before the door ahead slides open and reveals the people waiting.

Bilbo shakes his hand somewhat distractedly, and Gandalf chuckles, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

“You'll do just fine,” he tells Bilbo, “I wouldn't have offered you this if I weren't sure you're perfect for it.”

Bilbo sighs.

“I can't say why, but that's not very reassuring,” he mutters, and Gandalf merely smiles.

“Good luck,” he tells him, and then, without warning, leaves him, marching ahead, the door sliding close after him before Bilbo can even get a grip on the handle of his suitcase.

Right, then. This is it – whatever it is.

When he enters the hall, he automatically searches for Gandalf's tall figure in the crowd, but it's as if he were never there. Bilbo gulps dryly, and focuses on the numerous people standing alone with paper boards in their hands, reading the names of the ones they're waiting for. The one with  _Professor Baggins_ is in the hands of a short man, dressed in an almost ridiculously sharp uniform, deep blue accompanied by bright golden buttons, an even brighter red tie, and a hat that reminds Bilbo of all those professional drivers of large, luxurious cars one would only see in movies... Which, wait – that's probably exactly who this person is. 

Swallowing a nervous sigh, he makes his way towards him, and is somewhat taken aback when the man notices his approach, and his face spreads in the widest, warmest smile.

“Professor Baggins?” he tilts his head.

“Ah, yes... yes, that would be me, I suppose, though... I don't really like being called Professor, as I'm... not actually one, you see...” Bilbo stammers.

The man laughs, folding the board quickly, and takes his glove off, extending his hand to Bilbo.

“It is a pleasure nevertheless! My name is Bofur, I am His Majesty's chauffeur. Welcome to Erebor!”

Bilbo shakes his hand, pleased to receive a firm grip, and relaxes a little bit – the man's accent is impeccable, and he's still smiling. Sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, and with the brown curls and equally brown eyes glinting at him, Bofur looks almost like one of those expensive vintage toys, polished and colorful, and always cheerful.

“Let me take that off you,” he says, and grabs one of Bilbo's suitcases before he can protest, and leads him in long strides out of the hall and to the parking lot, Bilbo assumes.

It has, fortunately, stopped raining in the meantime, and Bilbo notices that the air is considerably warmer after all, and infinitely fresher – courtesy of the mountains. Snow-capped peaks are towering on the horizon, stunning even to his tired eyes, and he inhales deeply, instantly feeling better.

“Spring comes quickly,” Bofur says as if he's reading his mind, “it has been raining for the past two weeks, which means it will be warm in no time, you'll see!”

Bilbo laughs nervously, because he's just noticed the car Bofur is undoubtedly leading him to – a sleek, dark-gray thing of a make Bilbo doesn't recognize. He's never been one for cars, really, but he can certainly appreciate quality when he sees it, and this machine stands out among the others, the same way a tiger would stand out among house cats.

Bofur refuses, politely but firmly, to let Bilbo put his own suitcases into the trunk, and opens his door for him as well. The interior of the car is overwhelmingly luxurious, the leather of the seat squeaking slightly as Bilbo shuffles to make himself comfortable, and take up as little space as possible at the same time.

The car all but floats out of the parking lot, slowly and perfectly silently, and Bilbo exhales raggedly.

“Did you have a pleasant flight?” the chauffeur asks.

“I slept through it, so yes, it was as pleasant as they come, I suppose,” Bilbo replies earnestly, and Bofur chuckles.

Something about his kindly demeanor is extremely appealing to Bilbo, allowing him to relax, albeit slowly.

“The drive to the Palace should take about thirty minutes, depending on the traffic. You are welcome to sleep through it, too.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary, but thank you,” Bilbo smiles, and searches his satchel for his glasses.

Reading the contract properly is something he was planning on doing in the plane, but exhaustion got in the way. It is also something that he absolutely, definitely should have done before he even started packing, but he worries thinking over the past week in any greater detail would only bring about a mighty headache. He's here now, there's no turning back, and that's all there is to it.

It takes some searching, but at last he finds the page with the basic information about the job – already, he's noticing the language of the document (archaic at best) and the largely intimidating amount of detailed descriptions of court protocol and etiquette. He's no stranger to high society manners – Bree would host an Earl of this or a Duke of that every now and then – but actually working for royalty apparently entitles so much more.

_'...upon signing, the teacher agrees to attend a compulsory Etiquette class once a week, and is expected to seek knowledge of the language of our country, as well as its history and customs, at leisure...'_

“Oh, dear Lord,” Bilbo all but winces.

“Everything alright, Professor?” Bofur asks immediately, and Bilbo blushes, adjusting his glasses.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he blubbers, “and could you perhaps... Could you please not call me 'Professor'? I'm not quite sure how titles work in your educational system, but I'm actually just a high school teacher now. 'Mister Baggins' should suffice, really.”

Bofur smiles at him through the rear-view mirror.

“As you wish. But others will probably still call you that – it will be explained to you by my more eloquent colleagues that titles do indeed work differently around here. Don't take it the wrong way, I'm not... it's not a part of my job description to explain this to you, you understand,” Bofur finishes with a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle, “my English doesn't extend much past car terminology.”

“Oh, but your English is wonderful!” Bilbo shakes his head, “truly. I understand Erebor is among the most thoroughly educated countries in the EU language-wise, is it not?”

Another smile.

“That it is. Three official languages, Khuzdul, German and English, and most children learn Italian or French these days, too.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Wasn't always like that – English was only established as an official language ten years ago. There is still a number of people in my generation who do not speak it well.”

“Ten years ago...” Bilbo muses, the contract now lying forgotten in his lap, “after the coup?”

“The Azanulbizar revolution, yes. You know about it?”

“Very little, I'm afraid,” Bilbo admits, “I didn't even know it was called... that.”

“Azanulbizar,” Bofur repeats more slowly, indulgently, “it was the name of the capital way back before the first World War. You will hear many elderly people still calling it that. But I suppose Erebor is easier to remember.”

“Somewhat,” Bilbo mutters with a smile, then adds a little shyly, “you must excuse me, but I feel utterly foolish, coming here and knowing so little about your country's history. Or the language, for that matter. My linguistic major is cowering in the corner right now.”

Bofur laughs heartily.

“Oh, don't worry about it,” he offers, “or, as we say, _ma zârmur abùrûfizu dumizd_.”

“And what does that mean?” Bilbo wants to know, intrigued by all the harsh consonants and the strange fluidity of the language already, promising himself to look into it properly as soon as he gets a chance.

“Do not swim in the blood of your ancestors,” Bofur supplies cheerfully.

“...Charming,” Bilbo offers somewhat weakly, and the chauffeur laughs again.

“It's an old saying,” he explains, “it means do not dwell in the past, on what your ancestors managed to do wrong, that sort of thing. You know?”

“I suppose...” Bilbo mutters, and is about to ask more questions, but his eyes trail out of the window, and the sight steals his breath away.

“That,” Bofur says with an unmistakable hint of pride, “is _Gabil-Dum._ The Great Hall. A lot like your... what do you call it? Parliament Housing?”

“Houses of Parliament,” Bilbo corrects him, still gazing out of the window.

They're only moving forward slowly now, waiting for a green light on a broad driveway, resembling the boulevards of Paris in Bilbo's eyes – it is paved with cobblestones that have probably been there for centuries, and lined with neat walkways and tall trees, only just waking up after the winter. To his left, behind a beautifully curved metal fence and in the midst of what will soon be a rather glorious garden, looms the Great Hall, a tall bulk of a renaissance building at its best. People are pouring in and out, and a number of the arched windows are open, letting the fresh air in.

“It's pretty,” Bofur chuckles, “but wait until you see the Palace. We'll be there shortly.”

“Right, yes,” Bilbo replies faintly, straightening up in his seat as the car moves forward at last.

The slowly creeping chill of nervousness overcomes him once again, despite Bofur's friendly demeanor, and the obvious joy with which he fills him in on all the essential goings-on in the country. Surely, Bilbo thinks, this will all stop feeling like a slightly mad dream, and soon. Knowing himself, the panic will kick in at the least convenient time, rendering him utterly useless and desperate. He doesn't know  _anything_ about the country! He knows no trivia, and surely they're going to ask him? What if they don't even let him inside, what with the slightly crumpled blazer he's wearing? It occurs to him he hasn't eaten anything since the biscuits and (poor excuse for) tea on the plane, and hunger makes him  _so_ jumpy...

Oh, yes, trust Bilbo Baggins to start questioning everything  _after_ his fate has been sealed. Could he still catch an evening flight home if everything goes to hell? He inhales deeply (and somewhat shakily), and closes his eyes briefly, leaning on the headrest, only to shoot upright the very next second, fumbling for the file with the contract.  _He hasn't even checked the bloody salary._ This is quite literally the least practical he's ever acted, and what on earth was he thinking?! If he were the theatrical type, he'd probably slap himself right now, because this is all so utterly, unbelievably...

“Oh my god,” he squeaks, and fortunately the chauffeur hasn't noticed, so Bilbo plasters his hands over his mouth to keep himself from crying, screaming, laughing... who even knows anymore.

The pay would be... exorbitant.  _Ridiculously_ so. Bilbo gapes at the numbers, blinking furiously to determine if he's not seeing one or two more zeros than there should be, but all of them remain.

One more breathless second later, he lets the air escape his lungs with a ragged huff, and closes the file very, very gingerly. It's not that he particularly cares for money – not three days ago, he was perfectly content with the idea of being a high school teacher for the rest of his life, for crying out loud! The only excessive spending he's been allowing himself is on slightly eccentric fashion, warm blazers and cardigans, even a sweater vest or two (not to mention the ascots and ties; and the shoes, yes, alright, the shoes); and books, and that is it, really. He picked up the dressing habits at Bree and has always been too proud to let them go, but otherwise, he never really cherished the idea of having too much extra money... definitely not  _this much_ extra money.

Drumming his fingers on his lips absentmindedly, he flips the pages of the contract in search for the actual job description.

“ _...A minimum of four lessons per work day, the topics of which shall be decided upon meeting the pupil..._ ” he mutters to himself as the car speeds up on a motorway that is clearly leading away from the city's center, “ _...All necessary equipment will be provided for financially... His Majesty wishes to oversee the creation of a new timetable coordinating the daily routines of both the pupil and the teacher..._ ”

Apart from the fact that he hasn't created a timetable in literally years, Bilbo finds everything surprisingly reasonable. He flips a few pages back, to a sort of profile of the Crown Prince. ' _Fili of the royal Durin line, the first of his name, son of the Princess D_ _í_ _s, brother to Kili, and heir to the throne of Erebor'_ reads the almost pompously decorated frame under the photo of a boy with a somewhat unruly mane of an exceptionally bright orange color. No matter the almost ridiculously uptight jacket-and-tie combo he's wearing, there's a hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes that spells trouble in big bold letters. And... oh. 

_'Mother, Princess D_ _í_ _s of the royal Durin line, 1975-2011; Father, Vili, Duke of_ _ Urs-tarâg, 1973-2011'  _

Bilbo remembers it very, very vaguely – some sort of an accident in a mine... a cave-in? But before he can muster the courage to ask the chauffeur about it, the car leaves the main road, cobblestones beneath its wheels once again, and Bilbo sees that they are crossing a square with the statue of what must be one of the Kings of old in the center, surrounded by beautiful, tall chestnut trees, and on the far end ahead...

“Welcome to the _Hurmulkezer,”_ Bofur announces, smiling at Bilbo expectantly through the rear-view mirror, “the Royal Palace.”

 

If the building he saw downtown was beautiful, the Palace is nothing short of monumental. They stop before a tall metal gate with the royal coat of arms embossed in a shiny brass plate hoisted in the middle. The chauffeur enters some sort of a code into a device hidden away in one of the pillars, and the gate flies open soundlessly, gravel crunching below the wheels of the car as it joins the driveway leading all the way up to...

Bilbo can't see the main wing of the enormous building from his point of view, but it overwhelms him nevertheless, two additional wings situated in a park spreading much further than he can see. It balances just on the right side of strikingly pompous, with its arched windows, and the tall hipped roof, an almost unreal shade of bright blue, decorated with tens of pointed turrets – some higher form of Gothic architecture, if Bilbo isn't mistaken. The driveway is lined with neatly trimmed conifers of some sort, and... what looks like a large sun-dial, surrounded by short, perky bushes, and a fountain, of which he can only see the very tip...

Sudden anxiety overcoming him, he curls up on himself in the comfortable seat and forces himself to breathe, and look anywhere but at the splendor surrounding him. This is... this is absolutely ridiculous, and he's in way over his head, and surely he's going to be reminded of that the second he sets foot on the perfect white gravel....

“And here we are!” Bofur announces, the car stopping far too soon for Bilbo's liking.

Before he can compose himself in any sort of way, the chauffeur exists the car and trots to open his door for him, smiling as he gestures with his arm, inviting him out. Bilbo gulps, his throat suddenly very dry, and clambers out awkwardly, clutching his satchel to his chest. A shaky gasp escapes him, because he finally gets to see the main wing in all its glory. There are tall pillars, and massive marble lions standing guard on both sides of a long, broad stairway, and his mouth very nearly hangs agape.

The car drives past him then, Bofur flashing him an encouraging smile, and Bilbo realizes the chauffeur is actually the only person he knows in this massive, frightening new world, and he scolds himself for wanting him to stay, to offer some fleeting sense of safety, perhaps...

But another man is swiftly approaching him, descending the incredible stairway swiftly – he is even shorter than Bilbo, sporting a smart tail-coat accompanied by a bowtie, his hair as white as all the surrounding marble, and, to Bilbo's immense relief, he is also smiling, albeit with a somewhat exalted air to it. 

“Professor Baggins, I presume,” he states, and when Bilbo confirms, he shakes his hand firmly.

“Welcome to Erebor! My name is Balin, and I am the Chief of Staff here at the Palace, as well as His Majesty's personal assistant.”

He clicks his fingers and two young... what should Bilbo even call them? Footmen? ...appear seemingly out of nowhere, grabbing Bilbo's suitcases and hurrying away as fast as they came.

“Your luggage will be waiting for you in your personal quarters, which I'll show you later,” Balin explains, “now, if you could please follow me.”

He leads him straight up the staircase and inside, and Bilbo has seen many a hall in his life, but none quite like this one. But he barely has the time to marvel at the incredibly tall ceiling, and the massive chandelier above another set of stairs, because Balin takes a sharp turn and leads the way through hallways after hallways, their steps muffled by a carpet so fancy Bilbo feels almost inappropriate walking on it.

“I shall give you a tour of the Palace after we've dealt with all the necessary administrative matters, and you've been properly accommodated,” Balin explains, marching quickly, “you will meet your pupil, the Crown Prince, after dinner. Unfortunately, His Majesty is busy today, but he shall express his greetings in person at some point, I expect. Here we are.”

In the following thirty minutes, Bilbo, hungry and slightly disoriented, finds himself fidgeting in a very luxurious armchair in the Chief's office, answering any and all question that warrants Balin's interest, and... where exactly did Erebor's Chief of Staff get his resume?! 

But strangely enough, amidst the almost alarmingly beautiful décor, with actual sunlight coming in through the window behind Balin, Bilbo doesn't feel angry, and his insecurity is swiftly leaving him as well. No, he's starting to get unhealthily, dangerously excited, and lightheaded, too, courtesy of skipping lunch.

“Everything appears to be in order,” Balin smiles it him from across the large polished table, “do you have any questions regarding the latest alterations of the contract?”

Bilbo smiles first, blinks in slight confusion second.

“Uhm... alterations?” he repeats, “I wasn't... I wasn't made aware of any.”

Balin narrows his eyes.

“Oh,” he utters, “I see.”

“It's just that... well, everything was very last-minute for me,” Bilbo stammers, “I was provided with the contract mere days before coming here, and...”

“It's quite alright,” the Chief smiles shortly, and fishes out a document from a drawer in his desk, sliding it towards Bilbo, “this covers everything. I'll give you time to read over it. If you have any questions whatsoever...-”

At that very moment, the phone on his desk rings, and he answers it with an apologetic grimace. Instead of the document in his hands, Bilbo watches Balin's face, contorting in a very dignified frown, deeper and deeper the longer he listens to the caller. A few short sentences in Khuzdul later, Balin rises from his desk, sighing: “I am so very sorry, but I must leave you for a couple of minutes. Would you mind waiting here for me? I shan't be long, and I'll be ready to answer any and all questions you might have.”

“Oh, certainly,” Bilbo nods politely, “that is no problem at all.”

Smiling thankfully, Balin gathers a couple of important-looking binders from his desk, puts on a beautiful pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and hurries out, leaving Bilbo alone in the quiet luxury of his office. He shuffles in the armchair, engaging in a brief staring contest with the painting of who must have been a very important monarch, riding a horse and rallying his troops in the midst of a terrible battle. His stomach grumbles desperately, and he winces.

“Alright,” he sighs and puts on his glasses, delving into the appendix of the contract, thankfully not longer than two pages.

First, it contains a neat, detail schedule of both the Princes' daily routines, from breakfast to bedtime, then a list of Bilbo's additional duties. It goes on for quite a bit. Waking the Princes up on workdays. Driving the younger, Kili, to school, and picking him up again in the afternoon. Writing a daily report on Fili's activities-

“ _By the hour?!_ ” Bilbo exclaims.

Devising a program for the boys on at least one day of the weekend?! Bilbo scoffs loudly, his hunger forgotten in the favor of the heat rising in his cheeks, and he thumbs through the pages of the original contract quickly and determinedly.

“Aha!” he says, “here it is! Weekends off! _'A leisure time, unrestricted movement on the premises of the Palace, permission to engage in any and all events the Crown is hosting!_ ”

He deflates when he realizes there is actually no one to shout all this at, but still... Still! This is outrageous! He did not sign on for this! Well, actually, come to think of it, he has not signed the contract at all, yet...

 

He hears voices in the hallway then, one of them unmistakably belonging to the Chief of Staff, and prepares a rather fiery speech, all but vibrating in his seat in sudden, righteous anger, feeling wronged and ridiculed, and very ready to let that all show. But Balin still isn't coming, though he must be standing only a couple of meters away from his office – instead, it seems that he's deep in discussion with someone, and how rude is that?! Surely he knew Bilbo would protest, and that's why he left him, so that he wouldn't be confronted with his disapproval face to face!

“Oh, this is... This is _just... So..._ ” Bilbo groans, struggling for words, drumming his fingers on the file lying across his knees.

Then he hears Balin and his companion laugh softly about something, and his patience reaches its limit. All but jumping up from his seat, he marches out of the office, opening the door without much care and entering the hallway with a shrill “Excuse me!”

The group of men standing on the far end of it turn to him immediately, and Bilbo falters momentarily, because next to Balin is standing the King himself, surrounded by what must be his security detail. He recognizes him even though he saw him for about a minute on the TV – the sight is hard to forget. Incredibly tall, wearing a dark blue suit, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes even more piercing in person, and his face like chiseled stone as he gazes at Bilbo sternly, stealing his breath away for a second.

“Professor Baggins, I believe I told you to wait inside,” Balin hastens to say, “please, give me a minute, I'll be right with you!”

“Oh, I don't think I'll give you a minute,” Bilbo states firmly, though his heart is suddenly beating very frantically, and he's sure he's being incredibly rude, breaking about thirty different protocols all at once. Instead, he marches over to them, waving the miserable appendix to the contract at Balin.

“This is ridiculous!” he exclaims, “I never agreed to this! I wouldn't have set foot out of my door if I'd known you wanted me to be a, a... glorified nanny!”

Balin sighs desperately, raising his hand and opening his mouth to say something, but the King next to him chuckles shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So, this is the teacher?” he asks Balin, his eyes still glued to Bilbo, and somehow, it only serves to fuel Bilbo's fury.

Balin lets a quiet, pained sigh escape him.

“Indeed. Professor Bilbo Baggins, Your Majesty. Professor, let me introduce His Majesty, King Thorin II.”

Bilbo does deflate somewhat when the King extends his hand to him, and shakes it firmly.

“Welcome to Erebor, Professor,” he says, but however deep and rich his voice is, it doesn't sway Bilbo.

“My pleasure,” he says curtly, “or, at least it was, until I was given this!”

“The modified contract, I presume?” the King turns to Balin, who nods somewhat helplessly.

“What is your issue with it?” His Majesty asks Bilbo directly, and if he were in any proper state of mind, he'd be a bit intimidated by his towering height and the piercing look in his eyes, not to mention the looming bodyguards, whoare probably this close to tossing him out, but for now, Bilbo is really just too enraged to stop, even though he registers the Chief of Staff shooting him a pleading grimace to tone it down somewhat. Oh, but Bilbo has been toning it down all his life, and he's just about had enough.

“Where do I begin?!” he exclaims, “you managed to contradict pretty much the entirety of the original contract on two short pages! I came here to be a tutor to one of your nephew, not a wet nurse to both! Do they not have a governess of some sort?! You will forgive me, but so far, the only clear thing about this job is the fact that it actually takes place in this country!”

Bilbo couldn't miss the slightly disdainful look the King shoots Balin, even if he tried, but it only serves to make his blood  _really_ boil. Did he actually leave his home for... this?! Dear Lord, he... he actually quit his perfectly normal job for this!

“I trust you read the contract properly?” the King says dryly.

“Of course!” Somewhat.

“Then was it not clear enough?”

“Not clear enough – oh, there was an overabundance of _clear!_ ” Bilbo sputters, a tiny part of him promising him he will feel very sorry about this at some point in the future, “yes, I'm sure 18th century Prussia would certainly find its language more than appropriate!”

The King's brows furrow, and Balin rolls his eyes, albeit very discreetly. 

“What are you saying?” His Majesty asks somewhat menacingly.

“I'm saying you're lucky I spent years studying Old English, and that my bachelor's thesis was an in-depth syntactic dissection of Beowulf, otherwise I think I would have given up halfway!” Bilbo retorts, somewhat amazed at the energy with which he's digging his own grave.

If, at the end of this, he'll end up  _not_ banished from the fair country of Erebor, he will consider it a great surprise.

“The _antediluvian_ style of writing aside,” he continues, not particularly caring for his tone, or the blush creeping into his cheeks, “I think what amused me the most was the section on... what was it? _Funeral arrangements?_ I appreciate the sentiment, but I didn't come here to die, I should hope!”

Behind the King's back, Balin pinches the bridge of his nose, and Bilbo would feel sorry for him, if he weren't so...  _royally_ pissed. Though, his spunk does retreat somewhat when His Majesty takes a step closer to him, because he really is an imposing sight, with his broad shoulders and a sharp nose, and... was that the quirk of a smile on his lips? Surely not.

“I'm very sorry to hear that my style of writing doesn't comply with your... professional tastes, Professor,” the King states, “perhaps I'm the one you should be tutoring, instead of my nephew, what do you say?”

Balin shakes his head solemnly, and Bilbo opens his mouth to offer a clever remark, but his ability to speak has deserted him for a moment, it seems. The King does smile then, broad and regal, and Bilbo flushes, clearing his throat, his eyes darting away. Oh, dear Lord.

“Balin, please make sure the boys are ready for supper,” His Majesty says clearly, and when Bilbo does brave looking at him once again, he's not smiling anymore, though his eyes are still gleaming in quiet amusement, “Professor, walk with me, if you would.”

“Your Majesty, I assure you that's not necessary,” Balin interjects, “I'm quite sure I can settle everything with Mister Baggins myself, no need to waste anymore of your time...”

“And yet,” the King declares curtly, “I shall waste some more of it nevertheless. Mister Baggins will come see you in your office when we're done. Thank you.”

And with that he begins marching away in long strides, obviously expecting Bilbo to follow him. A tad confused, Bilbo seeks advice with the Chief, but Balin's face is entirely unreadable, and he merely sighs raggedly, shrugging.

“You've yet to sign the contract, and receive a proper tour of the Palace,” he tells Bilbo, “stop by when you're... done.”

With that, he gently motions Bilbo to go on and disappears into his office. Noticing the King and his sharply dressed gorillas are waiting for him at the far corner of the hallway, Bilbo gathers up his satchel and hurries to them, beginning to feel somewhat faint, the foolishness of his behavior slowly catching up with him.

The King leads him back to the Main Hall and up the magnificent stairs, utterly silently, and Bilbo struggles to match his tempo without stumbling, because he can't but admire the décor, the numerous paintings lining the walls, the beautiful statues in almost every corner... They pass many people, and all of them, be it office workers in smart suits or maids in beautiful, almost vintage-looking dresses, exchange a polite, wordless greeting with the King, some more reserved than others, but all of them pausing with more or less obvious curiosity at the sight of Bilbo by His Majesty's side.

The higher floors of the Palace are incomparably quieter, and the King slows down in a hallway lined with tall windows, overlooking a beautiful little atrium, its glass roof sheltering an island of bushes and benches, all deserted now. Just as Bilbo manages to muster his courage to start talking in a more reasonable tone, the King says: “Tell me, Professor, why  _did_ you come here? If not to be a... how did you put it? Yes, 'a glorified nanny'.”

Bilbo blushes a little.

“Well, err...” he begins, “you see, a week ago, I didn't even know this position existed at all.”

The King gazes at him briefly.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. The offer came as quite the surprise, and I... I do apologize for my reaction regarding the adjusted contract, but as I said, my decision to come here would have been influenced greatly if I had... if I had known...”

And suddenly it's all too clear.

“Forgive me, but did your office relay the adjustments to Gandalf – Mister Grey?”

“I believe so.”

“I see,” Bilbo all but groans.

He will have to have a very direct call with Gandalf, very soon, he decides. Turning to the King, he offers: “I do apologize. I wasn't made aware of all the intricacies of this position. This is all very... unexpected to me, and I do believe you... Your Majesty has better things to do than waste time with me. I can find my way back to the Chief's office, I think...”

“If you don't want the job, my people will be more than happy to find you the earliest possible flight home, all expenses covered, of course.”

The King says it matter-of-factly, his expression completely calm, a bit cool even, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but cannot. Somehow, at that very moment, the idea of going back to the airport, to England, is just so extremely... displeasing. Besides... well, he's come this far, and here he is, having managed to severely insult one of Europe's monarchs literally seconds after meeting him, and that's an experience that will stay with him for good, he's inclined to believe.

“No,” he says resolutely, “I don't think that'll be necessary.”

The King regards him with an utterly unreadable expression, almost scrutinizing, silent for a moment, and Bilbo is rather proud of not budging an inch.

“Very well, then,” the monarch declares at last, clearly, resuming his walk, Bilbo once again trotting at his side, “in that case, there are some things you should know. The Princes' last governess quit... not three weeks ago, I believe. Ever since then, we've been forced to make certain... adjustments. Fili, the Crown Prince, has been studying at home this past year. Kili goes to a regular school in the city.”

“Why doesn't the Crown Prince attend a school as well?” Bilbo inquires, managing at the same time to admire (and get slightly weirded out by) the extensive collection of antlers on the wall they're walking by.

“That is no concern of yours,” His Majesty replies simply and sternly, and Bilbo's eyebrows arch up.

“Very well, then... Did you say the Princes' _last_ governess? How many have there been, exactly?”

At that, the King inhales, but falters with his answer.

“I understand this position doesn't exactly correspond with your qualifications,” he says at last, smoothly, “but I am prepared to discuss a raise in your salary should you accept it.”

Bilbo stops so abruptly it takes the King a second to notice, and he looks behind his shoulder in irritation.

“Well?” he demands.

“You haven't answered my previous question,” Bilbo offers simply, “how many governesses have your nephews had over the years?”

His Majesty frowns.

“None,” he supplies, and Bilbo squints in confusion, but then a ghost of an indiscernible emotion flashes over the King's face, and he adds, sternly, “that is, until their parents died. In the two years since then, there have been... five, altogether.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo mumbles, and is about to start offering his condolences, or apologizing, he does not know, but the King raises his hand in a firm gesture.

“Simply tell me whether you want the job or not, Professor.”

Bilbo gazes at him, at a loss for a moment. Does he? It is very obviously unlike anything he's been expecting, and... well, maybe that's not a bad thing. He looks out of the window – this particular hallway overlooks a part of the park, and the sight is already glorious, though the trees are only just beginning to wake up after the winter. There is a pond hidden in the greenery, and a horse with its rider walks on one of the neat walkways, and the sun is beginning to set, coloring the whole scene in warm hues of gold and orange...

Quite simply put, Bilbo is enchanted. He straightens up, putting on his most professional expression and nods at the King, who is still gazing at him with the faintest hint of expectation in his eyes.

“I'll take it,” he declares, and later on he will think he dreamed it, but His Majesty's face falls in something very akin to relief for a fleeting second.

But then he composes himself and steps forward, shaking Bilbo's hand.

“Then welcome aboard,” he tells him, “I suggest you return to the Chief's office now – he will relay all necessary information.”

  
The King leaves him in the company of a maid who escorts him back to Balin's office, where he promptly signs the contract, still riding on the somewhat inexplicable high coming from having accepted the job at all, and... the next hours are a blur. Balin gives him a tour of the Palace, his empty stomach and tired legs alike protesting quite fervently against the thoroughness of it. Then Bilbo meets the slightly intimidating Head of Security, Dwalin, who also happens to be Balin's brother, and receives a neat badge and an envelope with all the instructions and numeric codes he will have to memorize. And at last, Balin shows him to his quarters – one floor above the Princes' rooms (apparently the plans have changed at some point and he will not be seeing either of them today; which is for the better, as he's not too sure he'd make a particularly stellar impression), situated so that the setting sun bathes his apartment in an almost ethereal haze – and what an apartment it is.

Bilbo almost moans contentedly at the sight of the bed, much wider than he will ever need, and the armchair by the window – and is that a small balcony?! And, oh dear, a bookshelf, and an entirely too luxurious desk, his suitcases waiting by it, and the door to what looks like his own bathroom, and a wardrobe...

“Is this... is this mine?” he stutters when Balin helps him put all his newly acquired documents on his desk and slides the top drawer open, putting in Bilbo's hands a brand new tablet computer.

“It is,” the Chief nods, “of course, if you prefer to use your own machine...”

“No, no, I... I think I'll be fine,” Bilbo blabbers, thinking of his age-old wheezy netbook, buried somewhere at the bottom of one of his suitcases.

“Very well, then,” Balin says, “I believe you have all you need. I'm afraid you have missed supper-” Bilbo's stomach grumbles unhappily and he strains himself not to whine in desperation, “-but the building across the yard over there is where most of the staff reside. The dining room is on the second floor, the cooks should still be in, and I'm certain they will be happy to feed you.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo sighs.

“And thank _you,_ ” Balin tells him surprisingly earnestly, “I shall take my leave. Eight AM tomorrow, my office, remember.”

“Yes, yes, I'll be there.”

Balin smiles and nods, and leaves him alone – the second the door closes behind him, Bilbo slumps into the armchair, flinging his head back and groaning, half disbelief, half joy. His head is threatening to burst with all the new knowledge, and he can't quite believe that some... what, twelve hours ago? He was locking the door of his apartment back in England and getting into a cab, and it was raining... His stomach grumbles again, and he stands up, stretching his back.

Deciding everything else can very definitely wait, he grabs his security badge, and the key card to his room, and the envelope with all those codes for different parts of the Palace, and heads out, entirely too exhilarated to be walking the hallways freely. Somehow, he manages to find his way out of the enormous building, though ending up on exactly the opposite side of back yard than the building he's headed to is, but he doesn't really mind – instead he breathes in the cold evening air, trying to paint a mental map of where on the premises he is right now (and failing) and really just enjoying himself a bit too much, considering the fact that this could all still be a dream. But get a decent dinner in him, and he's sure he will not want to wake up.

Standing in front of the entrance to the staff quarters – a building quite unlike the Palace, low and built from dark red terracotta bricks, mostly overgrown with ivy – he fumbles with the papers, searching for the right code to enter into the machine at the door, when a loud “Mister Baggins!” startles him and almost makes him drop everything he's holding.

It's Bofur the chauffeur, and he opens the door for him, inviting him in with a grin. The inside is warm, and moreover, smells of something incredibly delicious, instantly making Bilbo's mouth water.

“I see you're all settled in, then?” Bofur remarks, leading him up the stairs.

“Somewhat,” Bilbo agrees breathlessly.

“I'm glad to hear that! You must be starving.”

“...Somewhat,” Bilbo repeats, more intently, and Bofur laughs.

“I've only just finished, myself. Don't worry, there's plenty of food left over. And here we are!”

Bofur leads him into what Bilbo anticipated would be the dining room, but instead turns out to be the kitchen itself. Bilbo's senses are assaulted seemingly all at once, with the smell of something glorious baking, and the sound of the radio playing loudly and being sung along with by the occupants of the kitchen.

“Bombur!” Bofur speaks loudly, “Oi! _T_ _akât_!“

The large man in an apron stops swaying and clapping the second he lays his eyes on the newcomers, and hurries to turn the volume of the radio down.

“Thank you!” Bofur laughs, “now, look! Let me introduce to you Mister Bilbo Baggins! He's the new tutor. Mister Baggins, this is my brother Bombur, and though he doesn't look it, he's His Majesty's Head Chef. And of course, his lovely wife Mirjam, who, unfortunately, doesn't speak a word of English, but will make up for it with her excellent meatballs, I'm sure!”

“Welcome, welcome!” Bombur beams and shakes Bilbo's hand mightily, and his large round face framed by a flaming red mess of both beard and hair spreads in the widest smile Bilbo has ever seen – it's entirely impossible not to grin at the sight.

“Very nice to meet you, I'm sure,” Bilbo offers politely, but the Chef's wife is already shaking his hand, muttering in quick, cheerful Khuzdul, Bilbo entirely at a loss, but feeling overjoyed at the meeting nevertheless.

“...And nice to meet you too, I'm sure!”

Bofur, who has been smiling about the whole affair, offers Bilbo a chair, and tells his brother: “Give him something to eat, would you? Poor man hasn't eaten since I picked him up – or have you?”

“No, no, I really haven't,” Bilbo exhales, and in the span of about five seconds, Mirjam fills two large bowls with rice and a tomato sauce with meatballs, and slides in front of Bilbo and Bofur, never severing her continuous stream of chattering in Khuzdul, smiling at Bilbo and motioning him to start eating.

The groan that escapes him when he takes the first bite is undignified at best, and they all laugh.

“I am so sorry,” Bilbo mumbles, his mouth full, “but I really haven't eaten anything in about ten hours, and this is _absolutely_ delicious, Ma'am, I'm... How do you say thank you in Khuzdul?”

“ _Âkmînruk zu_ _,_ ”Bofur supplies.

Bilbo does his best to repeat it, and judging by Mirjam's eyes lighting up and her laughter, he succeeds, on some level at least. 

“You'll be staying, then?” Bombur asks him, him and his wife sitting across the table from him and Bofur.

“Oh, uhm, yes, I believe so,” Bilbo mutters, and Mirjam utters something at which both Bofur and Bombur chuckle.

“She says she hopes you will last longer than the others,” Bombur explains at Bilbo's questioning grimace.

“Oh, don't worry,” Bofur says encouragingly, “you have more courage already than all the previous governesses combined.”

“Do you think? How so?” Bilbo blabbers, “And, most importantly... will I need it?”

“Oh, you'll need it,” Bombur laughs, a low rumble, but his brother waves him off.

“Giving His Majesty a piece of your mind on your first day?” Bofur declares, “pretty much all of the previous teachers couldn't even get the Princes to listen, much less the King!”

Bilbo pfft's, but is at the same time endlessly grateful for his luck – it seems that he has by some miracle managed to meet nice people on his first day of work, and he senses already just how important knowing someone who doesn't mind breaking the protocol a little bit by a good laugh will be in the coming days.

“Well, I haven't met the Princes yet, you see,” he says, “I wouldn't be surprised if they were more difficult than the King.”

“Oh, they're difficult alright,” Bombur chuckles, “but more difficult than His Majesty?”

Bilbo's eyebrows arch up and he seeks more answers wordlessly, his mouth currently full, but Bofur merely smiles and pats his shoulder kindly.

“Don't worry about it,” he assures him, “I'm sure you'll do just fine. And, whenever you feel like murdering either of the three... don't! Stop by here instead, and we'll have a drink, or five.”

And Bilbo laughs with them, thinking he should perhaps be a little unnerved by all those remarks about the difficulty of the royal family, but right now, his stomach is pleasantly full, and he's managed to survive the most eventful day he's had in ages, and if anyone had told him a year ago that he'd be right here, right now, he'd probably, definitely laugh at them.

“I will sue the Crown if I turn into an alcoholic, then,” he mutters, and the brothers burst into laughter, and as Bombur translates his remark to his wife, Bofur grins: “Smart. You'll fit right in.”

 

 

* * *

**Dictionary**

_Âkmînruk zu / Âkmînruk menu_ \- Thank you (informal / formal)

_Gabil-Dum_ \- Great Hall

_Hurmulkezer_ \- Honorable Palace

_Ma zârmur abùrûfizu dumizd_ \- don’t swim in the blood of your ancestors

_Takât!_ \- Silence!

_Urs-tarâg_ \- Firebeards **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're off! I owe a massive thank you to [Laura](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebigspoon), the most wonderful beta reader and advisor one could wish for. All the Khuzdul is more or less legit, put together with the help of [this](http://www.scribd.com/doc/98388264/Khuzdul-Dictionary-K-E-v01-JUN12) pretty darn amazing dictionary. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, next one coming soon!


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently, none of the last days were a dream, Bilbo realizes when he wakes up in the softest bed he's ever slept in, surrounded by warmth and quiet splendor. The faintest hint of the pinkish glow of the rising sun bathes the far corner of his room, and not without surprise, he realizes this is the first time in years that he's woken up before the alarm going off. On a Saturday, too! Probably courtesy of going to bed incredibly early last night, and... has it really been only twenty four hours since he was getting up, with much less enthusiasm, back at home?

He opens the door to the tiny balcony to let fresh air pour in, cold and invigorating, and gets dressed – unpacking everything will have to wait, but the coat hangers in the wardrobe are that ridiculously posh stuffed satin kind, and there is a number of beautiful wooden compartments just waiting for his ascots and socks, and... well, he might be getting a little carried away, but surely it's only natural.

Having spent last night putting everything important into his new, horribly luxurious tablet, he feels very fancy indeed, unlocking the machine with one swipe of his finger, and searching for the staff timetable. _Breakfast, 6:00 – 8:00._ Yes, excellent.

It is barely past seven, but the Palace is already up and bustling, people hurrying this way or that with purpose. Bilbo crosses the back yard, marveling at the beauty that was somewhat concealed to him last night – a tall sakura tree grows in the center, sure to provide a breathtaking sight when it starts blooming, and there are remnants of a wall with a single, tall window with a tipped arch and a delicate stone rosette, the ancient structure rising from what seems to be a rose garden. It is all very fairy tale-ish indeed, and Bilbo makes a note to try and find out more about its history at one point or another.

Breakfast is served in a cafeteria on the second floor of the building – yet again, it is almost too perfect to be true, with its open buffet, and cozy little armchairs by small round tables, and the fireplace crowning the large room... Bilbo can't help the content smile as he piles scrambled eggs on his plate, and, better yet, he is soon greeted by Bofur, who sits with him and explains to him some of the workings of the staff accommodation, and offers any and all advice Bilbo could possibly need.

“Oh, and also, important question,” the chauffeur says, munching on his toast with jam, “what kind of car would you like to drive?”

Remarkably, Bilbo manages not to spill his coffee all over his cardigan when he chokes on it.

“I'm... I'm getting a car?” he stammers.

“Well, how else would you go about driving the Prince to school and back?” Bofur chuckles, “don't worry, it will definitely come with a GPS. Still, I was told I should go with you the first time, Monday morning, just to make sure that you don't end up in Switzerland or something. ...So? What would you like? The car park is plentiful, we have Alfas, Fiats... pretty much every Mercedes ever made as they're His Majesty's favorite... some Skodas, too, reliable little ladies they are...”

“I have no clue about cars whatsoever, I'm afraid,” Bilbo sighs, and Bofur merely grins.

“Don't worry about it,” he says cheerfully, “how about you stop by the garage around, hmm... six-ish, this afternoon? We'll pick something out for you.”

“...That would be wonderful, thank you,” Bilbo replies earnestly, a little overwhelmed by Bofur's largely unwarranted kindness.

“No problem! Now,” the chauffeur points to the clock on the wall above the mantelpiece, “I need to get going, and so should you, perhaps?”

“Oh, goodness, you're right!” Bilbo exclaims.

It's ten minutes to eight, and time really does fly in the company of nice people and warm breakfast. Bofur walks out with him, wishing him luck and bidding him farewell, and Bilbo hurries inside the Palace, navigating the vast hallways of its ground floor more or less successfully, reaching the office of the Chief of Staff just in time.

“Good morning,” Balin greets him, “ready to meet the Princes?”

“As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose,” Bilbo offers with a nod.

“Their program for this weekend is set, no need to worry about that,” Balin tells him as he leads him through a part of the Palace Bilbo hasn't been to yet, “after you've gotten acquainted, they both have a horseback riding lesson before lunch, and Fili goes on with fencing in the afternoon, while Kili has his piano lesson. All we that will be asked of you today is to gather them afterward for dinner, and send them off for their Etiquette class after they've eaten.”

“...And leisure time?” Bilbo asks somewhat uneasily, “when is that?”

“Two hours after lunch,” Balin replies flatly, “then after the Etiquette class until bedtime.”

Bilbo frowns, but says nothing. For his part, he's quite curious to see what the boys are like, and how they're handling such a strict regime.

“His Majesty will be present to discuss the classes you will be teaching the Crown Prince,” Balin continues, “The King himself has been teaching him Maths and Physics, and as that is the exact opposite of your area of expertise, I think coming up with a comprehensive schedule should not be too difficult.”

 

They walk through the whole mass of the Palace's... what was it? B Wing? Bilbo is sure it has a wonderfully incomprehensible Khuzdul name, too, but he really cannot be bothered to remember it right now. At last, they enter the library – it took Bilbo's breath away the first time he saw it, and manages to do so again, with its high ceiling, and numerous tall shelves overflowing with books, and the central plateau with a couple of luxurious leather sofas, all swimming in plenty of natural light coming in through the large windows with long, fluttering white curtains.

On the richly decorated carpet before the sofas sits a little boy, humming to himself and swaying softly as he flicks through a book that is almost larger than him, his finger trailing the pages, a look of inherent concentration in his eyes. Balin clears his throat, and the boy raises his head, gasping the second he sees them, jumping to his feet and straightening his little blue jacket.

“Professor Baggins, I'd like to introduce to you His Highness, Prince Kili,” Balin declares, and when the boy simply stands there for a second, unmoving, eyes large and somewhat frightened, Balin chuckles, ushering him on in gentle Khuzdul.

The Prince inhales deeply as if preparing himself for some gruesome task, and steps forward, extending his tiny hand to Bilbo.

“It is very nice to meet you,” he recites, the forced seriousness of his voice bringing a smile to Bilbo's lips, “my name is Kili, and I'm seven years old! How old are you?”

Bilbo laughs, shaking his hand carefully.

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness,” he replies, “may I say, your English is very good for someone so young!”

The little Prince's chest puffs up in pride for a fleeting second, but then he scowls.

“Thank you, but please, how old are you?” he repeats his question almost strictly.

Bilbo's eyebrows arch up, and he exchanges a look with Balin. The Chief is smiling, and he nods to Bilbo – _well, go on._

“Very well then,” Bilbo grins, “I'm thirty-four, if you must know.”

Kili gazes up at him silently for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly, and then declares: “Eight!”

“...Eight?” Bilbo repeats.

“Eight years younger than Uncle,” the Prince reveals, “still, you're both old men.”

“Kili!” Balin scolds the boy, but Bilbo can't help the incredulous huff of laughter, and the boy smiles up at him entirely innocently, large eyes gleaming.

“ _Kulh_ _în_ _k_ _hâzashizu_ _,_ Kili?” Balin asks the Prince then, and he replies in Khuzdul as well, leaving the Chief frowning.

“ _Kulhu_ _?_ And your Uncle?”

Kili shrugs.

Balin tsk-tsks discretely, checking his watch.

“They should have been here by now,” he tells Bilbo, “...do you think you two could excuse me for a couple of minutes?”

“Oh, that's no-” Bilbo starts, but Kili interrupts him with a loud “We excuse you!”, followed by giggling as Balin waggles his finger at him in mock displeasure.

“I'll be right back,” the Chief declares, “please, wait here. _Both of you._ ”

And so Bilbo stands alone with the young Prince, who says nothing, merely gazes at him, unflinching, scratching his temple absentmindedly. Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, but the boy purses his lips, putting his finger on them and shaking his head. Then he sits back down on the carpet and pats the spot next to him. Bilbo takes a careful look around and sits down as well. Kili nods appreciatively and whispers: “We must be quiet.”

“Why is that?” Bilbo asks conspiratorially, keeping his voice down.

“So that if Uncle is... coming, Fili can hear, and he can... run away,” Kili explains, struggling with some of the words, accompanying them by little gestures of his hands.

“Oh, I see,” Bilbo replies, “is Fili hiding?”

Kili giggles and nods, but puts his fingers on his lips again in the next second, as if to remind both himself and Bilbo.

“...Somewhere in here?” Bilbo asks after a breathless second, and Kili nods again.

“He wants to hide all day,” he announces very seriously, and goes back to his book.

“And I'm presuming he has Master Balin and your Uncle searching for him right now, doesn't he?” Bilbo adds, and Kili shrugs, but then he sighs, so solemnly that Bilbo almost laughs again: “Yes. …And what is... presume?”

“Ah, well, it's another word for _think,_ ” Bilbo replies.

Kili cocks his head, still concentrating on the book, and mumbles solemnly: “Thank you. I don't know English very well.”

“What? Your English is amazing, Your Highness!” Bilbo tells him earnestly, smiling when a grin spreads over the boy's face, “really! And that's coming from and Englishman!”

Kili blushes and giggles, and looks up at him at last, and suddenly, Bilbo is reminded that the boy's parents are both dead, and just how cheerful he seems despite it – he wonders what his brother is like.

“You can call me Kili,” the Prince says firmly.

“...Thank you,” Bilbo replies, a little taken aback, “and you can call me Bilbo, if you like. None of that 'Professor' nonsense, alright?”

“Alright!” Kili chuckles.

“Good,” Bilbo smiles, “now, I should really like to meet your brother, as well!”

He looks around – they are alone in the large room, and nothing but the occasional birdsong and the wind ruffling the treetops interrupts the heavy silence, no sight of Balin, or the King anywhere, and definitely no sight of the older Prince.

“He's very good at hiding, isn't he, your brother?” Bilbo asks Kili, purposefully speaking up a bit.

The boy mhm's.

“He hides in the Palace,” he says, “everywhere. He has secret... secret places. In the gardens, too. Sometimes people run and shout for him, and he's right... right...”

“Under their noses?” Bilbo offers, and when Kili scowls, he hastens to add, “it's a saying. It means something or someone is seemingly easy to see, but people still miss it... can't find it. Just like Fili, I suppose.”

Kili blinks up at him in awe for a moment, and then he smiles uncertainly, closing his book and standing up.

“Fili!” he shouts, “Fili, _ganagîn_ _,_ _sul ghelekh_ _!_ _Ibizarur_ _!_ His name is Bilbo, and he's teaching me under their noses!”

For a long while, nothing happens.

“Fili!” Kili repeats, more demanding, and a somewhat exasperated groan is heard from behind a shelf, surprisingly close to where Bilbo and Kili are sitting, and the Crown Prince comes out reluctantly.

His bright hair stands about his head like a golden halo, in sharp contrast with his formal clothes, and he's frowning deeply, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers.

“ _A_ _lgâbikûn_ _,_ ” he grumbles at Kili, who simply sticks his tongue out at him.

Bilbo stands up and extends his hand to him.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you at last, Your Highness. I'm Bilbo.”

The Prince sighs deeply, as if he's suffering a great injustice, and shakes Bilbo's hand briefly.

“I'm Fili, Crown Prince of Erebor, heir to the throne, blah blah blah,” he moans, “and you're not a woman.”

Bilbo raises his eyebrows.

“Well, I'm glad that's clear enough,” he replies, “...should I be?”

“Doesn't matter,” Fili shrugs, “it's just... all of our previous nannies were women.”

“Yes, I've heard! I understand none of them did a very good job,” Bilbo says honestly, and strikes gold, because Fili forgets himself for a fleeting second and grins.

“They could never find us,” Kili offers, and Fili rolls his eyes, adding: “They were stupid. Afraid of Thorin, too.”

“Why on earth would they be afraid of the King?” Bilbo wonders.

“You'll see,” Fili replies darkly, “I bet you won't last a week.”

“No, I want Mister Bilbo to stay!” Kili exclaims completely surprisingly, tugging at the hem of Bilbo's cardigan, “will you stay?”

“I'll do my best,” Bilbo shrugs, pretending not to notice the older Prince scrutinizing him, lips still pursed somewhat defiantly.

Just then, voices and footsteps are heard, and Balin enters the library, with the King by his side.

“Oh, great,” Fili groans, and beckons Kili to stand up straight, straightening the jacket on his back, smoothing it on the boy's shoulders, Bilbo watching the whole process, slowly starting to get a vague idea of just how strictly the boys are being brought up.

“Fili!” the King barks, not sparing a look in Bilbo's direction, “ _Kulh_ _în_ _z_ _ûr_ _zu_ _?_ ”

“I was here the whole time,” the Prince replies in English, and that, too, is a sign of defiance, Bilbo senses.

“...It's true,” he decides to add, “we were just getting acquainted.”

“And Mister Bilbo was teaching me English things!” Kili chimes in, and Bilbo makes note of the King's face softening slightly before sighing and narrowing his eyes at Fili, whose look snaps away and out of the window stubbornly.

“...Well, I am happy to hear that,” His Majesty says, “with that out of the way, Balin, please escort Kili to his quarters to get changed. Fili – myself and Professor Baggins would like to discuss your new schedule with you.”

The boys' reactions to their Uncle's order are so vastly different, Bilbo notices – when the King is not looking, Fili rolls his eyes so mightily they threaten to disappear into his skull, while Kili merely sniffs non-committaly, nods, and slides his hand into Balin's.

“ _Shamukh_ _,_ Mister Bilbo!” he announces cheerfully.

“Uh... goodbye?” Bilbo stammers, reassured when Balin nods at him, meaning that Kili was indeed saying goodbye as well.

 

Alone with the King and his older nephew, Bilbo feels the mood tensing by the second – His Majesty sits down on one of the sofas, clearly expecting Fili to join him, but the boy merely raises his eyebrows and does nothing. When Bilbo takes a seat as well, slightly nervously, the Prince sighs dramatically and sits down at last, as far away from them as possible.

What follows is the most painfully uptight ten minutes of Bilbo's life – the King presents Fili with ideas for his lessons, corresponding with what Bilbo _should be_ able to teach him, and the Prince keeps replying curtly, evasively, obviously growing angry in his Uncle's mere presence. This will not do, Bilbo decides – he's no family therapist, but even he can see that with the King in the room, no real effort can be expected of the boy.

“Your Majesty,” he interrupts, perhaps a tad more sternly than intended, and the King narrows his eyes at him, “I should like some time alone with your nephew, if you would allow us.”

Fili frowns in confusion, while Thorin scrutinizes Bilbo, then sighs.

“I do not see the merit of that,” he declares firmly, “I stated clearly that I would be overseeing the creation of this new timetable.”

Fortunately, Bilbo manages not to let his exasperation show – he merely smiles shortly, politely, then stands up, not failing to notice Fili's interest rising.

“Could we speak in private?” he says to the King, and withstands his epic glare rather excellently.

Thorin looks from Bilbo to Fili, who merely leans back in his armchair, crossing his arms over his chest. His Majesty sighs almost imperceptibly, then stands up.

“ _Stay here,_ ” he orders Fili, who, yet again, says nothing, and then the King frowns at Bilbo powerfully, motioning him to follow.

“Professor Baggins,” he turns to him the second they are out of earshot, standing by one of the tall windows on the far end of the library, “I do not take kindly to people wasting my time.”

“I dare say we are wasting each other's time, Your Majesty,” Bilbo replies, then adds quickly, before Thorin's glare can set him ablaze where he stands, “hear me out. Your nephew clearly isn't in a particularly talkative mood – I'll venture a guess and say that it's a common occurrence.”

The King says nothing, his frown still in place, merely beckons Bilbo to continue.

“I will be spending so much time with him in the coming days – I think I should like to start now,” Bilbo states, “give me an hour with him alone, and I will have a first draft of our schedule on your desk by lunch, I promise you.”

His Majesty continues to stare at him, jaw set tight.

“You flatter yourself, Professor,” he says at last, sternly, “my nephew doesn't respond well when it comes to strangers.”

“And when does he ever respond well, Your Majesty?” Bilbo asks perfectly innocently, and Thorin opens his mouth to retort, but it ends in a mere exasperated sigh.

“I know it is too early to ask for your trust,” Bilbo presses on, “but, well... trust me. I need to at least try, I think – if I fail to get my point across to him, it will be a lesson to all of us.”

The King's gaze slides from him to Fili, who is currently crossing his legs below himself in the armchair, stopping abruptly when he notices his Uncle is looking, and sitting up in a proper position, mockingly overdone, his back straight as a ruler, hands on his thighs, nose up. Bilbo would chuckle, if it weren't for the flicker of pained disappointment in the King's eyes.

“Very well,” Thorin sighs, “someone will come pick him up in an hour for his horse-riding lesson.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replies earnestly, and the King merely shakes his head solemnly.

“Best of luck, Professor,” he says flatly, then walks away in long strides, sparing only a fleeting look in Fili's direction, uttering a couple of sentences in Khuzdul, to which his nephew gives him a vastly mocking thumbs-up.

“So,” Bilbo announces loudly when the King is gone, “first of all, I think we should stop ruining these fancy sofas. They're not all that comfortable.”

And he proceeds to sit on the carpet instead, in front of Fili, who merely gapes at him.

“Come on, then,” Bilbo pats the floor, “your brother let me earlier, and there's no harm in it if no one learns, am I right?”

Fili squints at him, then sighs deeply and all but slides out of his armchair and onto the carpet.

“Right,” Bilbo smiles, ignoring the boy's prevalent annoyed expression, “are you going to tell me why you don't go to school anymore?”

“...You don't know?” Fili blinks at him lazily.

Bilbo shrugs.

“People have been awfully secretive, you see.”

“Yeah, Thorin made a big deal out of it, didn't want anyone to find out,” the boy offers with a hint of what can only be bitter pride.

“Find out what?”

“I was, uh... They... Ugh, I don't know the English word,” Fili groans, leaning his head on the armchair behind him.

“...Expelled?” Bilbo offers, “as in, they forced you to leave the school because of something you did?”

“...Expelled, yeah, I suppose,” Fili mumbles, frowning and wrapping his arms around his knees, looking away – Bilbo realizes the Prince fully expects to be mocked, or chastised.

Instead, Bilbo leans forward, grinning.

“What did you do?”

Fili doesn't reply, merely glares.

“Well, I bet it wasn't because of your grades, because something tells me you're too smart for your own good.”

The Prince blinks a couple of times, clearly confused, not knowing what to make of that – was he just insulted, or complimented?

“Well?” Bilbo smiles.

“...You wouldn't believe me,” Fili mutters, “none of the adults did.”

“Try me.”

“Guess.”

Bilbo raises his eyebrows, but Fili glares back defiantly.

“You must guess it,” he repeats.

“Alright,” Bilbo chuckles, “did you... did you skip too many classes?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Did you... break something expensive?”

Another head shake.

“Insult a teacher?”

“Nah.”

“Did you... oh, you got into a fight, didn't you?”

Bilbo knows he's right – Fili curls up on himself even more, looking away, pursing his lips, and... well, he's not the typical brawler kid. Short and scrawny, still waiting for a growth spurt to hit, but there is an unmistakable spunky spark in his eyes.

“...Why?”

No answer.

“Were you protecting your brother?”

Fili's eyes widen, and he uncurls, gaping at Bilbo.

“...How did you know?”

“A lucky guess, I swear,” Bilbo smiles, “so... you beat some kids up because they were being mean to Kili?”

“He was just six years old,” Fili says quietly, “we went to a new school when it was time for him to go to the first... first grade?”

Bilbo nods.

“Right,” Fili utters, “and I was in sixth, because you go to a different school sometimes, for the sixth grade? You know?”

Bilbo mhm's.

“And the other kids, they... well, they learned who we were. Line of Durin, and all that. And they were mean. At first they were just... saying things. And then they would... steal? Steal Kili's food. And didn't let us sit with them... at lunch. They were such _ishmeti._ Mean all the time.”

Bilbo listens to the boy speak, utterly entranced – he didn't in his wildest dreams expect him to open up this quickly, but it is obvious that he has so many things to say, stumbling over words and gesticulating, not unlike his brother, and Bilbo senses the stale pain and anger far too well.

“It all happened after the... that,” Fili waves his hand fervently, and somehow, Bilbo knows that he means his parents' accident, and nods swiftly, not wanting to force the boy to speak about that.

“And I was... Well, Kili was too little. He didn't know. But I was just angry all the time. I didn't want school. They were worried, and they made me see... eh, doctors?”

Bilbo merely nods, sensing that interrupting him wouldn't be the best course of action.

“I hated them,” Fili declares with quiet determination, his chin on his knees, “they knew nothing. And I fought other... other kids a lot, and they said it was wrong, but I didn't care. That's why I was expelled. And Kili went to a different school, but I didn't want to. And Thorin wouldn't let me. That's the story.”

Bilbo and Fili exhale almost simultaneously after that, and Bilbo offers a smile, secretly amazed that the Prince told his story in such detail, without any crying.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says earnestly, “for the record, I don't think there's anything wrong with standing up for your family.”

Fili inhales deeply, opening his mouth to respond, but then he frowns and asks, entirely unexpectedly: “What record?”

“...Huh?”

“You said 'for the record',” Fili says somewhat impatiently, “what record?”

“Oh...” Bilbo smiles as the realization dawns on him, “oh no, it's just a saying, don't worry! It's like all those procedural TV shows... the ones with the police. When they're interrogating a suspect – asking all the questions? And it's being recorded? Or when a journalist records an interview with someone? It means... Well, it means that you stand by what you say. It's official. For the record.”

Fili merely blinks at him in genuine interest, as if he's expecting the lecture on idioms to continue, and Bilbo relaxes – this will be... if not easier, then definitely entirely different than anything he'd expected.

“Alright then,” he declares, “what do you say we prove your Uncle wrong and actually manage to start working on this timetable?”

 

...And by the time a young smartly dressed woman interrupts them, announcing herself as a personal assistant of the Chief of Staff, they have what, at least to Bilbo's eyes, appears to be a pretty comprehensive schedule – he's proud. Of course, he will need to rename some of the lessons, for example the ' _The bloodiest wars throughout the centuries'_ on Mondays and Wednesdays, or _'Reading stuff'_ each day in the afternoon, all names Fili made him type into the brackets, snickering. But calling it 'History of political conflicts' and 'Modern literature' respectively should appease the King, Bilbo decides.

“Will you come for lunch?” Fili asks him out of the blue, before he leaves, Bilbo standing up and gathering his things.

“Oh, I... I mean, should I?” Bilbo stammers, “can I? I think I'm supposed to eat in the cafeteria with the staff, Your Highness.”

“Ugh, don't call me that,” Fili waves his hand, ignoring his escort's politely horrified grimace, “whatever.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say some more, but Fili merely waves him goodbye and leaves, and Bilbo thinks that the look of mild disappointment on his face definitely warrants at least asking Balin or someone if he could indeed join the Princes for lunch.

The Chief is slightly taken aback when Bilbo does present him with the timetable, and more importantly, the question later that morning, but agrees to pass both to the King, and not an hour later, Bilbo is escorted to the family's personal quarters.

Both boys are sitting at a ridiculously large table in yet another spacious, well-lit room with a rather glorious view of a part of the Palace's gardens Bilbo hasn't seen yet, tall trees bowing over what looks like the remnants of a sort of theatre stage, round and overgrown with roses, much like the relics of the wall Bilbo saw earlier that morning.

He doesn't have much time to admire the outside, because Kili exclaims happily when he sees him, and pats the chair next to him fervently until Bilbo relents and sits down, only to stand up abruptly the next second, because he notices that his place is set all the way over at the head of the table, across from the King's – if the large chair, infinitely more pompous than the others, is any indication.

“It's quite alright, sir,” a maid stops him in his tracks, and promptly moves his cutlery and plates closer to the boys.

Kili grins at him when he sits down, and even Fili sniggers when Bilbo remarks quietly: “Quite big, this table, isn't it? For four people?”

“It's just for us!” Kili announces, and Fili adds: “Thorin doesn't come very often these days.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo sighs.

“Will you eat with us always now?” Kili wants to know, and Bilbo can't really resist the bright, broad expectant face.

“I suppose so,” he nods, “as often as I can manage. ...If the King allows it. Is he really not coming...?”

Both boys shrug almost simultaneously.

“You never know,” Fili says flatly.

And apparently, His Majesty is busy today, because they eat the soup and the delicious chicken alone. The boys don't seem to be fazed in the slightest by the fact that their Uncle is apparently too preoccupied to join them for a simple lunch, and they chatter away happily enough, even trying to teach Bilbo a couple of simple phrases in Khuzdul, and dragging him away to show him their rooms after the meal is finished. It's all mostly Kili's idea, Bilbo realizes – Fili simply tags along, but him sniggering when Bilbo attempts and fails to pronounce his Khuzdul hello's and goodbye's and thank you's properly, and teasing his brother about the state of his room, is enough, Bilbo decides.

Their quarters consist of two large bedrooms, interconnected by a sliding door, each equipped with its own TV and computer (which Fili retreats to immediately while Kili gives Bilbo the tour), and about three times the size of Bilbo's own apartment. Kili's room is stuffed with toys, large boxes of Lego pieces, half the floor taken up by an impressive racing track for tiny formula one cars, which the Prince fishes out from under his bed, demonstrating his toy-racing abilities to Bilbo until his car swivels off the track and hits a nearby shelf, to both the boys' amusement. Fili's room is neater, with many a bookshelf, and an easel with a half-finished painting by the window, and puzzle pieces scattered on the ground, and Bilbo can't but admire it all, thanking the boys for letting him in, though they're certainly not aware of the significance of the gesture.

Kili then makes Bilbo take him to his own apartment on the floor below, and it isn't until they run into Balin in the hallway and the little Prince squeaks and hastily tries to hide behind Bilbo, that Bilbo learns the boys aren't actually allowed out of their rooms until after their afternoon activities start. But Balin dismisses it kindly enough, sending Kili back and accompanying Bilbo to his apartment.

“His Majesty was... quite pleased with the schedule you devised,” he says as if he himself is reluctant to believe the fact, “and you're allowed to join the boys for lunch whenever you should please. However, we would ask you to dine in the cafeteria still, as a new roster is revealed there every evening, and it would be in your interest to acquaint yourself with it.”

“...Understood,” Bilbo replies.

Balin then presents him with a more detailed daily timetable for him to study during his 'lunch break', and somewhere between marveling at the number of extracurricular activities both Fili and Kili have in addition to their classes, and wondering whether he should stop by the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, Bilbo dozes off, surprisingly tired, and only wakes up to his phone ringing, entirely disoriented.

He suffers a fleeting moment of sheer panic when he reads the name of the caller, thinking everything was, after all, a dream, because Aunt Lobelia is on the line. But he's still in his new, warm, beautiful apartment in the royal Palace of Erebor, and... dear God, how is he going to explain this?!

“...Hello,” he mumbles drowsily.

“Bilbo, darling!” Lobelia exclaims, “I'm just making sure you _are_ actually coming tomorrow!”

...Right.

“Uh, I'm... I'm terribly sorry, Aunt, but something actually... came up.”

“What do you mean?” Lobelia cries, “what on Earth could be more important to you than a nice family gathering? We haven't seen you in _years,_ Bilbo! Your cousins are asking after you! Poor Primula, what am I going to say to her?! Oh, but I should have known...”

Bilbo pulls the phone away from his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the decorated wooden ceiling, and can't help the grin that spreads across his face. He barks out a laugh, because he realizes both him and Lobelia are probably currently spending a fortune on this call, and he really, really can't bring himself to care.

“I'm so sorry, Aunt Lobelia,” he says when she pauses to catch her breath, “please give my regards to Primula, and everyone else. Enjoy the party.”

“What's gotten _into you?_ ” Lobelia wants to know, “where are you?”

“...I took a new job,” Bilbo sighs, “and I believe it will be keeping me very busy in the coming days. I'm sorry.”

“A new job?” she sputters, “well, but... where?”

And Bilbo smiles, sitting up and stretching his back.

“Erebor,” he says simply and hangs up, feeling utterly invigorated.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon consulting the Internet for any sort of handbooks he thinks him and Fili will need in the future, and before long, it is time to go see if the boys are ready for dinner. They are both more or less visibly displeased when Bilbo announces that he won't be eating with them, and their mood certainly doesn't improve when the King actually does show up. Bilbo feels almost guilty for leaving them. He hopes to meet Bofur in the cafeteria to ask him about it, but the chauffeur isn't there, and Bilbo remembers out of the blue that he's supposed to meet him in the garage later, and... where exactly is that again?

After making sure that the Princes meet with Balin, who teaches their Etiquette class, Bilbo relents and lets himself be navigated through the Palace by one of the maids, trying his best to add as much to his mental map of it as possible. Bofur seems quite delighted to see him, and Bilbo lets him pick a car out of the dozens stationed in the lofty garage, very resolutely deciding not to be overwhelmed by the overabundance of luxury. Settling at last on a rather adorable small red Fiat, Bilbo keeps the chauffeur company for the last twenty minutes of his shift, and accompanies him back to the staff building, because the prospect of some company and maybe even a little something to drink seems very nice indeed.

Quite a crowd has gathered at the common room of the building, including Bombur the Chef with his wife, and surprisingly enough, Balin and his brother Dwalin, the Head of Security, towering over everyone else at his imposing height. It turns out they're all waiting for the beginning of some sports match, and Bilbo is greeted and introduced to a handful of people, and handed a bottle of beer called _A_ _zaghâl_ _,_ which apparently means 'Warrior' – quite fitting, Bilbo thinks, his head spinning with the strength of the first few gulps alone.

They're a loud and cheerful bunch, and derive even more pleasure from trying to teach Bilbo Khuzdul than the Princes did earlier that day. They make him tell them his story, and have a great laugh when he tells them he didn't even want to come in the first place.

“ _Mahashafukizd tanakun izdîn uzgûz_ _,_ ” Balin declares, swaying slightly in his chair, his nose redder than usual, patting his chest over his heart – a couple of others do the same, and Bilbo blinks at them in drowsy confusion.

“It's a lyric from the national anthem,” Bofur tells him, “roughly translated, 'those reluctant to come stay the longest'.”

“...Beautiful,” Bilbo mumbles.

“So, how have the boys been treating you?” Bombur asks, “packing your bags yet?”

“Oh, I don't... Actually, I haven't even unpacked yet, I think!” Bilbo blubbers, and they laugh.

“Ready to bolt at any time!” Dwalin chuckles, “very smart of you.”

“No no no, I don't... I don't think I'll be _bolting_ anywhere,” Bilbo says, marveling at his tongue already heavy with the alcohol, “I had a very pleasant time with both of them today. They're very nice.”

“...Fili didn't try hiding from you again?” Balin wonders.

“Nope. Does he... does he do that a lot?”

They exchange many a fond look and chuckle, and Bofur pats Bilbo's shoulder.

“You should definitely stay alert,” he offers.

“...It's an escape mechanism, though, don't you think?” Bilbo muses against his better judgment – beer always gets his tongue wagging, “the minute the King was out of the room, he became so much easier to talk to. Told me about how he got expelled, and everything... I can't help but wonder what happened, you see, I think...”

But his babbling comes to a clumsy halt, because the company's faces fall as one, the cheer quickly dissipating from their midst.

“That,” Bofur utters flatly, “is not a happy story.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Bilbo stammers, waving his hands and swaying in his chair dangerously, “it's none of my business, I don't mean to pry. Forget I ever said anything.”

“Ach, you deserve to know,” Balin declares, sighing raggedly, his head falling and only his brother's firm grip saving him from tumbling off his chair, “if you're to work with the boys and all. …Do you know about the accident?”

“...Just that there was one,” Bilbo mumbles.

“It was a tragedy,” Dwalin says, putting his arm around Balin's shoulders to steady him, “Princess Dís' husband's company was opening a mine, it was a grand big event. There was a cave-in, utterly out of nowhere, over fifty people died there. ...They tried getting to them, of course, kept digging for days, weeks, until they finally gave up.”

His face and voice alike are stern and cold, his gaze steady, as if he's daring Bilbo to try and offer his meaningless condolences.

“The boys...” Bilbo sighs instead.

“...Were here, at the Palace,” Bofur says, “it happeneddays before Kili's birthday, he was supposed to start school after the summer holidays. They were kept in the dark as long as possible. Even after they learned, the King, he tried... Well, he did his best to keep them off the media. That at least he managed to do.”

Bilbo notices Balin's deep scowl, as if he's preparing to disagree, but then he merely exhales raggedly and shakes his head solemnly, and Bofur continues: “You see, the problem is... Princess Dís was the... the sunshine of this family, really. She kept everything together. After the Azanulbizar revolution... well, that's a long story,” he mumbles, exchanging a largely incomprehensible look with Dwalin, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“You should read up on that,” Bombur tells Bilbo kindly.

“Basically,” Balin says somewhat faintly, “the Princess and His Majesty were inseparable. She helped him a great deal when he had to become... become King. It was entirely too early, you see...”

His head drops a few more inches, and Dwalin mutters something in Khuzdul to him – Balin smiles softly and nods, reaching to squeeze Bilbo's shoulder (and missing twice before he manages to do so).

“All you need to know,” the Head of Security tells Bilbo, whose vision is beginning to blur when he stops concentrating, his mind swimming in a beer-induced haze of melancholy, “is that nothing has been quite the same since the boys' parents died. The King tries hard...”

“Very hard,” Balin nods.

“Doing his best,” Bombur chimes in.

“But the last two years have been very hard on him, and the boys as well,” Bofur finishes, and almost as one, they take a long gulp of their respective drinks.

“...Understandable,” Bilbo peeps, nuzzling his beer bottle somewhat weakly.

“But we're glad to have you!,” Bombur adds hastily, “and we don't... we don't just spend our evenings moping, I promise.”

“It's not all horrible,” Bofur chuckles, “no tragic stories for the next week, we promise.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Bilbo laughs faintly, and goes to bed that night feeling the strange sort of nostalgia that comes from learning about a nation's history, but not being a part of it – his head is pleasantly heavy, spinning slightly, and he smiles into his pillow when he realizes he doesn't need to wake up until nine the next day.

 

On Sunday, a game of polo takes place on the Palace premises, on a vast meadow beyond the park – Bilbo doesn't know much about the sport, but enjoys it nevertheless, the overall atmosphere of it rather thrilling. It is the first match of the new season, Balin, who sits next to him, explains, and describes the rules of the game in detail, as well as introducing the teams to Bilbo, who nods excitedly, marveling at the sunlight and the warmth, entirely unheard of in England at this time of the year.

The national anthem is sung before the match itself starts, everybody rising from their seats, the riders with their beautiful steeds in two lines facing the tribune where the King stands, his nephews by his side. Bilbo doesn't understand a word of it, but it doesn't matter – it's absolutely glorious, almost like some sort of dirge, all low hummed tones and rhythmical pauses, and conveys the plight of the nation quite clearly.

In mute awe of it, he only realizes he's been gaping at His Majesty, hands folded behind his back, wearing a long, dark blue coat with the collar upturned against the last of the winter's winds, when Kili begins waving at him, tugging at the sleeve of Fili's jacket until the older Prince sees Bilbo too, offering a short, cheeky grin. The King notices, searching for the source of their attention, and merely nods shortly, slowly when he sees Bilbo. Kili turns to him, speaking excitedly, but Thorin shakes his head, offering a few words, and the boy's face falls. Fili mutters something and the King's head snaps to him, a sharp remark being offered, and both Princes sink back to their seats in unison, Kili disappointed, Fili crossing his arms on his chest, shaking his head, displeased. Thorin's stern facade doesn't falter for a second, though he grants Bilbo one last look when he too sits, piercing and largely unreadable.

During the traditional divot stomping, which Bilbo finds quite hilarious, the gloriously dressed ladies balancing on their high heels, the boys run to him across the field, evidently happy to see him and escape their Uncle, and don't let go of him the whole time. They do manage to attract some attention, Kili dragging Bilbo around, deciding to pet every single one of the horses, and Fili muttering the names of the various nobles under his breath, accompanied by warnings about which ones to avoid, which doesn't fail to make Bilbo laugh.

They stop by Mirjam, Bombur's wife, stand, overflowing with various pastries, and supporting a large drink dispenser, containing what seems to be some sort of punch, berries and herbs that Bilbo doesn't recognize floating in the rich red liquid.

“It's called _hurusmazr_ _âl_ _,_ ” Fili offers, “you should try it!”

Mirjam, who is chatting in quick, cheery Khuzdul with Kili, blinks at Bilbo and pours him a cup. Surprisingly, the liquid is steaming hot, and smells absolutely wonderful. The Princes watch him expectantly as he blows on it and takes a careful sip, and burst into laughter when his face contorts and he coughs.

“That's... potent,” he wheezes, “but good! Sweet.”

Braving more, he gets used to the almost spicy taste quickly, and it warms him up immediately. He gives an appreciative thumbs up to Mirjam.

“Thank you, uh... _Âkmînruk zu,_ ” he attempts, and judging by her wide grin and a happy nod, he has succeeded at memorizing at least one phrase correctly.

“Nice,” Fili remarks, “now buy me a cup, too?”

“Absolutely not!” Bilbo laughs, evading Fili's playful grab expertly, somehow managing not to pour the drink all over his second best jacket.

“Fili! Kili!” the King's voice echoes then, and they see him standing with Balin and a group of very important-looking people nearby, motioning for the boys to join him.

“ _Katakhigerun_ _,_ ” Fili utters what is almost certainly a curse no thirteen-year-old should be using, “come on, Kili. ...Sorry,” he mumbles to Bilbo.

“Oh, no no, go,” Bilbo shakes his head, “it looks very important.”

“Boring, is what it is,” Fili grumbles, snapping Kili's hand away when he tries to steal one of Mirjam's pastries.

“I'll see you boys later,” Bilbo tells him gently, and he merely sighs with an exasperation befitting someone much older than him, and walks over to the King reluctantly, Kili's hand in his grasp.

Bilbo watches them intently, sipping on his drink absentmindedly, Kili just endlessly chipper and amusing the ladies of the company with his gesticulation and easy smile, while Fili stands a bit to the side, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking away every time his Uncle glares at him, refusing to partake in whatever conversation is going on.

It doesn't take much for Bilbo to figure out that His Majesty simply doesn't know how to approach his nephews properly, and that they in turn have very little interest in helping him along. It's sad, he decides, because he's tried his hand at it, and it's actually unexpectedly easy, at least for him, someone unburdened by the horribly tragic past.

The game resumes, but Bilbo pays little mind to it – instead, he scrutinizes the King and the Princes, and even though he's barely just arrived, and a part of him is still certain he's quite out of his depth, he can't help but start wondering how he could help resolve this unfortunate situation.

* * *

_  
_ **Dictionary:**

_Algâbikûn_ \- traitor

_Azaghâl_ \- warrior

_Ganagîn, sul ghelekh! Ibizarur!_ \- Come here, it’s alright! He’s nice!

_hurusmazrâl_ \- warm punch (as in, physical punch, but then it’s the name of the drink... geddit? geddit?)

_ishmeti_ \- idiots (shitheads, meanies... a generic insult really)

_Katakhigerun_ \- Dammit! (literally means ‘old stinker’)

_Kulhîn khâzashizu?_ \- Where is your brother?

_Kulhîn zûr zu?_ \- Where were you?

_Kulhu?_ \- What?

_Mahashafukizd tanakun izdîn uzgûz_ \- Those reluctant to come stay the longest

_Shamukh_ \- Hello/Bye (informal)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, finally meeting the boys! This chapter was written so quickly, I was actually surprised at myself. It was a lot of fun, tell me what you think! :')


	4. Chapter 4

There is nothing quite like a proper morning traffic jam. Bofur in the passenger seat assures him that it's a once-a-week occurrence at most, but so far, Bilbo is inclined not to believe him. Kili's school is on the other side of the city, and the GPS is helpful enough, but leads him through the busiest boulevards and roundabouts, and he can't help but glare nervously at the clock, while Kili hums a happy tune under his breath, and Bofur cheerfully chats away.

By some miracle, they drop the Prince off in time, and Bofur relents and shows him a much easier way back to the Palace, which Bilbo promptly saves into the GPS. It's not that he doesn't enjoy driving, but he much prefers it when it doesn't take place in the midst of a rush hour.

Back at the Palace, Bilbo has about a minute to breathe before he needs to get going to meet with Fili for his first class, but he doesn't mind. In fact, he finds himself rather enjoying marching through the hallways, a cup of coffee in his hands, his satchel overflowing with new study material. He is reminded of his time at Bree, what with the pleasantly busy morning commotion and the beautiful environment, and, well, that's the best he can wish for, really.

Fili is waiting for him in the room that has been assigned to them, looking less than thrilled. It's a small reading room on the highest floor, in the most remote section of the Palace, offering peace and quiet, and a glorious view of the main courtyard, with its statues and benches and neatly trimmed bushes. Somehow, Bilbo senses the Prince will appreciate none of that.

Still, the boy is attentive enough as Bilbo works on finding out what he knows about literature, which is the topic of their first lesson. During what he's decided to call Modern History, he makes Fili take notes, which is something he complies with with more than a hint of irritation, and by the time their third lesson – Modern English – starts, Bilbo knows this will not do. The boy keeps glancing out of the window, fidgeting in his chair, and a change of pace is sorely needed.

“You know what?” Bilbo announces resolutely, “this lesson is about talking, anyway. What do you say we take this outside?”

Fili straightens up immediately, glancing from Bilbo to the sunlit gardens below them, and back to his teacher.

“Can we?” he exhales almost eagerly.

“You know, I'm not sure,” Bilbo chuckles, “but we'll never know unless we try. _But,_ ” he raises his finger when Fili gets up eagerly, “you must promise me you will behave yourself. If this works, if I can see that it's helping your progress, I will make it official, understood? I'm sure your Uncle will only allow us this if he sees that it's helping you.”

Fili scowls.

“I don't think we should tell him at all.”

“I'm sure I'm going to have to,” Bilbo smiles shortly, “it's in my contract, see.”

The Prince merely rolls his eyes, but follows him obediently, scoffing and taking the lead when Bilbo gets disoriented in this largely unexplored part of the Palace.

“Pick a route for us,” Bilbo tells him when they're outside, the air fresh, the breeze cold, but not unpleasantly so, “somewhere quiet. We have about thirty minutes today, so I'm thinking we'll just walk and talk, and you will _listen,_ alright?”

Fili nods dramatically.

“We could go to the ponds,” he decides.

“Lead the way!”

 

Side by side, they delve into the park, and save for a groundskeeper or two, they are utterly alone. Bilbo talks about idioms, their roots and creation, and fortunately, the boy listens, offering a question or two, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. The ponds are situated beyond what Bilbo understands is the main network of walkways, deeper into the beautiful greenery. A path of white cobblestones curves between virtually dozens of pools, some not bigger than puddles, some wide and deep, all of them crystal clear, and Bilbo forces himself to concentrate on moving the lesson forward instead of admiring their surroundings. According to Fili, the path they're walking should take them through most of the park and back to the Palace in time, and Bilbo chooses to believe him, eager to see what other natural wonders the greenery contains.

By the time they appear on the far side of the premises, by the garage (Bilbo has no idea whatsoever how they got there, but nobody needs to know that), their cheeks are red from the brisk walk and the breeze, but moreover, Bilbo really feels like he's managed to engage the Prince quite successfully. Exploring the intricacies of the phrase 'food for thought', and Fili declaring he's getting hungry, they don't even notice the King until they almost run into him.

He's getting out of a car on the graveled driveway under the tall chestnut trees by the garage, and the second Fili sees him, he freezes on the spot, groaning.

“...Relax,” Bilbo tells him, “we're doing nothing wrong!”

“ _You're_ doing nothing wrong,” Fili sighs.

His Majesty sees them then, and responds to Bilbo's cautious wave with a menacing frown, uttering a few words to Bofur, who squints in confusion, then shrugs and gets back into the car, driving away. Thorin marches towards them swiftly.

“If anyone is to get in trouble, it's me, don't worry,” Bilbo mumbles, beginning to feel increasingly uneasy under the King's piercing gaze, but standing his ground.

“Ugh, I wish,” Fili moans.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Bilbo says cheerfully instead, resisting the urge to hiss at Fili to stand straight, and hoping his smile will ease the building fury in the King's eyes – to no avail.

“Professor Baggins,” Thorin all but barks, “may I ask what you're doing here? If I'm not mistaken, your lesson should still be ongoing!”

“It is!” Bilbo replies hastily, “it is ongoing! But as it is of a more... conversational nature, I figured a change of scenery would do us no harm. Certainly His Highness will agree with me when I say that the change of pace has greatly improved-”

“ _Master Baggins,_ ” Bilbo is cut off mid-sentence, the King raising his hand in a stern gesture, “this is not what we agreed upon. I assigned you a perfectly suitable classroom. Your job is to teach my nephew, not waste his time.”

“Your Majesty!” Bilbo can't help the somewhat horrified gasp, “I assure you nobody is wasting anybody's time here! The classroom is perfectly fine, but I saw no harm in this! Really, I think that a little fresh air is an excellent addition to any lesson-”

“It was my idea,” Fili says firmly.

“No, Fili...”

“No, yeah, I persuaded Mister Baggins to go outside,” the Prince says, Bilbo left gaping at him as he steps forward, facing his Uncle defiantly, adding, “I was bored. I took him to the park, and he talked to me about... idioms?”

“Idioms,” Bilbo nods somewhat weakly.

“And it was _fun,_ ” the boy spits out the last word as if it were a curse, “but I know it's not _allowed_ to have fun during classes, and I'm _sorry._ ”

“Now, Fili, I don't think it's necessary to-”

“Silence,” the King says simply, “both of you. Fili, I want you to go to your quarters and _stay there._ We will talk before lunch. Go.”

“No.”

Bilbo shudders. The situation is quickly taking all the wrong turns, and he has no idea how to mend it.

“ _Fili,_ ” Thorin all but growls, but the boy doesn't budge an inch, merely raising his eyebrows.

“The lesson is _still ongoing,_ ” he retorts mockingly, and His Majesty inhales sharply, stepping forward, and for a fleeting second, Bilbo is afraid he's going to strike the boy.

“I said _go,_ ” the King repeats firmly, loudly, “go now, unless you want to rot in your room until the end of the week!”

Bilbo opens his mouth to interject sharply, but Fili just laughs dryly.

“Oh yeah?” he singsongs, “what are you going to do, lock me up?”

“ _Ghelekhizu_ , Fili!” Thorin all but roars, and Fili and Bilbo flinch as one, “don't make me tell you twice!”

“ _Katakhigerizu_ _!_ ” Fili cries, and to Bilbo's utter shock, bolts and runs back to the park they came from.

“Fili, wait!” Bilbo shouts after him, but it's no use – he disappears amidst the trees too quickly, and beyond the horror of what he just witnessed, Bilbo feels himself getting furious.

“I'm sorry you had to see that, Professor-”

“Was that really necessary?!” Bilbo interrupts the King harshly, deriving some satisfaction from his eyes widening in surprise, “that poor boy! He did nothing wrong! He was brilliant, attentive, throughout the lesson! There is no reason to be this strict with him! If you had only tried to see-”

“Professor Baggins, if you're going to start telling me how to raise my nephew, I swear I _will_ fire you on the spot!” Thorin exclaims, and Bilbo is left gaping at him in mute shock, “clearly I should have acquainted myself with your _teaching methods_ properly before I let you anywhere near him. This will _not_ happen again, is that understood?!”

“Your Majesty, I really think that-”

“ _Is that understood?_ ”

Bilbo hangs his head. Oh, he should have known. He really, really should have known.

“...Understood,” he says flatly.  
“Good,” Thorin states, “if I'm not mistaken, you have one more lesson with Fili in the afternoon – _please_ make sure he doesn't try to _persuade you_ to go outside again.”

Bilbo's blood is beginning to boil, but he merely grits his teeth.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he utters and Thorin's eyes narrow, but Bilbo merely glares back.

“I will expect your report of today's activities on my table after dinner,” the King declares, “delivered in person – we're not finished talking.”

“...What about your nephew?” Bilbo prods.

“What about him?”

“Well, he _did_ just run off god knows where.”

“Leave him,” the King says resolutely, “he will come back for lunch, after he's... cooled off. Just make sure he's in his room, before you go and pick up Kili.”

“But...” Bilbo exhales, but finds himself incapable of saying anymore – his mouth merely shuts on its own at the sheer, sad ridiculousness of the situation.

The King offers a sharp nod and one last piercing look, and leaves him, Bilbo glaring at his back the whole time before he enters the Palace.

“Told you he was difficult,” Bofur appears out of the blue, patting his shoulder and causing him to flinch again.

Bilbo sighs, raking his hand through his hair.

“I should have trusted you,” he mumbles.

“Did you quit?”

“What – no! Well, he did threaten to fire me, but I mean... I mean, come on!” Bilbo waves his hands, “this is horrible. There must be a way to, to fix this somehow!”

Bofur shrugs.

“If there is, you will be the first one to find it, I guarantee you that.”

“...I'm trying not to see that as a challenge,” Bilbo smiles shortly, and the chauffeur pfft's.

“Now, I suppose I should go search for Fili. If I'm not back by midnight, declare me dead, probably.”

Bofur laughs.

“Try that road,” he points to a walkway winding through a meadow and past the trees where Bilbo cannot see, “follow it straight ahead, maybe you'll get lucky.”

“...Really? Where does it lead?”

“The cemetery,” Bofur replies simply, smiling somberly.

“...Oh,” Bilbo sighs, “...I see. Well, I... I'd better be off.”

“Yes. Good luck.”

 

Checking his watch, he learns that he has plenty of time before Fili's lunch, and he's sure he will need it. If he's still unpleasantly disturbed by the King's behavior, he imagines the boy is doing much worse. The path leads him under tall trees and past numerous benches and statues, but for once, he pays his surroundings little mind, worried about the Prince. At last, he reaches the cemetery – just a couple of more or less derelict gravestones scattered among trees beyond an old wall and an intricately curved metal gate ajar. Everything is overgrown and overpowered with ivy, and Bilbo almost holds his breath, the silence somewhat overwhelming.

“...Fili?” he calls out cautiously, without actually anticipating a response, and receiving none.

He sees that a gate, similar to the one he entered through, is inviting him out of the cemetery at the far side, onto a sunlit hill, and he follows it, certain that he will find the Prince there. A soft gasp escapes him, because Fili is indeed there – sitting with his back turned to Bilbo, next to him a gravestone that is too fresh to belong to anyone else than his parents. The hill overlooks a thick forest below, and beyond it, a portion of the city itself, teeming with life, and further ahead, the mountains, nothing but dark shadows rising from a sea of clouds.

“...Fili,” Bilbo repeats softly.

“Hi,” the boy offers, tilting his head slightly, no clue about his feelings to be found in his voice.

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo says earnestly, “I really didn't think your Uncle would react this... this harshly to us taking an innocent walk.”

“It's fine.”

“I don't think it is,” Bilbo shakes his head, keeping his distance, not wanting to breach the boy's personal space, or his trust, “that was very cruel of him – I promise I'll do my best to persuade him to let us continue this. It was fun for you, right? Because it was fun for me.”

“It was fun,” Fili concedes, “but there's nothing you can do. When he gets angry like that, it's...”

“It's better to run, isn't it?”

Fili shrugs non-committaly, curling up on himself, laying his chin on his knees. Bilbo braves taking a few steps closer to him.

“Can I sit?”

When he receives a half-shrug, half-nod, he sinks into the grass carefully, sparing a second's thought for ruining his trousers, but dismissing it quickly. He admires the beautiful view wordlessly, giving the boy his time, and... at what point did he get this invested? He's always thought he quite excelled at handling a classroom full of kids, but this... well, maybe there's still time for broadening his horizons.

“Will you go now?” Fili asks him quietly, still not meeting his eyes, and at first, Bilbo thinks he wants him to leave.

“Oh, certainly, if you want to be alone...-”

“No, no,” Fili gestures with his hand impatiently, “I mean... go back to England. It always ends like this.”

“...What does?” Bilbo raises his eyebrows.

“The other teachers,” the Prince mutters, “there's always a fight, and then Thorin fires them, and then they're gone.”

“Well,” Bilbo coughs, “I just got here, you see. I have no intention of leaving any time soon.”

Fili's gaze flickers to him for a fleeting second, and Bilbo offers a smile.

“Your Uncle didn't fire me... yet,” he chuckles, “but I assure you, I'm not so easily discouraged. I can take a lot. ...And so do you, I bet.”

The boy sighs powerfully, shrugging again.

“Listen, I mean it when I say I will do my best to make your Uncle understand that this could do you good,” Bilbo says firmly, “trust me. I don't see why your studies couldn't be made a little more interesting. I would take my students outside all the time when weather allowed it – it's very refreshing, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Fili exhales raggedly, “but... Thorin wants me inside, all the time.”

“...What do you mean?”

“This,” the Prince gestures over the small meadow, “is as far as I can go.”

“What are you saying?” Bilbo asks, “you can't leave the Palace?”

Fili mhm's, and Bilbo's eyes widen in genuine shock.

“Are you serious? ...Why?!”

“Gotta learn to behave,” Fili mutters, “after what I did. ...What was the word? Expelled? After I was expelled.”

“But that happened, what, a year ago?” Bilbo breathes out, cold chill creeping up his back as he finally begins to grasp the real scope of the bad blood between the King and his nephews.

“Yeah. But the people told him... some people told him that it would be better if I had a teacher here.”

“If you were home-schooled.”

“Is that the word for it? ...Yeah.”

“...I see,” Bilbo exhales, but the thing is, he doesn't.

He really, really doesn't. There is nothing about the boy that would suggest any sort of deviation past him being on the verge of puberty, and, of course, having to cope with the death of both his parents. But still, isolating a child this thoroughly? Bilbo is already coming up with quite a bunch of things he thinks he would like to discuss with the King in the evening, and none of them really guarantee that he will get to keep his job past today.

“Well then,” he announces, “I'll see what your Uncle has to say about that, alright? But either way, I'll do my best to make your lessons enjoyable.”

“...Why?” Fili asks utterly unexpectedly, large eyes gazing at Bilbo with seemingly nothing but genuine interest.

 _'Because I've spent too much time being prescribed what I must teach and how I must teach it'_ Bilbo wants to tell him, _'because I got a taste of how fun teaching can actually be, for both sides involved, and then it was taken away from me, and_ by God _do I hate to even think about going back to the way things were... oh, about a week ago. Because,'_ he smiles at the boy, _'a week ago, I didn't think anything exciting would be happening in my life any time soon, and yet here I am, and here_ you _are, and I'll be damned before I see another bright young mind rot.'_

“Because I like you,” he says instead, and the boy frowns in confusion, “and you're too young to be bored. And _I'm_ too young to be a boring teacher. Take it or leave it. ...Another idiomatic phrase,” he hastens to add, and Fili's eyebrows arch up, and to Bilbo's immense relief, he actually smiles.

“I'll take it,” he declares, albeit still a bit unsurely.

“Excellent,” Bilbo grins, “...now, I believe we were both really hungry at some point?”

“Starving!” Fili exclaims and jumps to his feet, “come on.”

Bilbo notes the quick changes in his mood, and the way he pays little to no mind to the grave nearby, but... well, perhaps he's just shy. They _have_ known each other for about three days. Promising himself not to rush anything, he follows the Prince through the park back to the Palace, the wariness about meeting the King again unspoken, but shared. Bilbo stays for lunch with Fili almost automatically, and yet again, the table is set for His Majesty as well, and yet again his plate remains untouched – not that either of them mind horribly.

 

During Fili's leisure time after the meal, it is up to Bilbo to drive back into the city again to pick up Kili – he enjoys it quite a lot, even managing to find a radio station that plays nice oldies music, his favorite. The little Prince brings an immense eagerness and joy with him, filling Bilbo's head to the brim with chattering about his day, and manages quite easily to persuade him to stop at a picturesque little square and buy them both a milkshake from a tiny, cozy shop before they go home.

“Mama would buy these for us!” the boy announces, sipping from the large cup carefully so as not to spill its banana flavored contents all over the car's seats – Bilbo freezes at the mention of the deceased Princess, but Kili is still smiling, adding, “strawberry is Fili's favorite!”

“Oh, well, perhaps we could take Fili with us one day!” Bilbo offers, and the Prince does one of his incredibly, comically serious head shakes, accompanied by a deep, solemn sigh.

“Fili must stay at home,” he says, followed by a loud slurp.

“Yes, I've heard. But I don't think it'll last forever,” Bilbo says, and Kili just grins at him sweetly in the rear-view mirror, and proceeds to entertain himself for the rest of the drive by trying to pull faces crazy enough so that Bilbo takes his eyes off the road for a fleeting second and reciprocates them, making the boy giggle.

All in all, Bilbo thinks, Kili grabbing his hand without much ado as they ascend the stairs to his and his brother's quarters, he'll be amazed if he doesn't find a way to make this work. _Really, really not what you signed up for,_ he reminds himself as he makes sure Kili washes his hands and unpacks his schoolbag. But then again, he hasn't felt this excited about his workplace in ages, and His Majesty... is like an obstacle he will enjoy crossing. A puzzle worth solving. And wow, he should stop thinking like that, in the name of self-preservation, because he's been here for four days and he's still in way over his head, but he also _knows_ he can do this. Somehow. Soon.

He decides to spend his measly thirty minutes of free time by grabbing coffee in the staff's cafeteria, where he bumps into quite the crowd, watching television with decidedly less cheer than the last time – some sort of news channel is on, the reporter speaking in quick Khuzdul, behind her a picture of a truly menacing-looking man, bald head and sharp jaw, resembling a shark in his smart silver-grey suit.

“That,” Bofur mumbles next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, all usual joy gone from both his face and voice, “is Azog Karkâl _._ ”

“Who is he, some sort of a criminal?” Bilbo whispers, and Bofur scoffs.

“Yes and no,” he replies, “he's a politician.”

“...Oh. What's going on?”

“He's just challenged His Majesty to an _êkurik_ _agl_ _â_ _b_ _._ It's a... it's like a debate,” the chauffeur explains in hushed tones, “you see, there will be elections after the summer holidays, and the leader of any political party can request a sort of... public discussion with the King. It's a part of our constitution, and a horrible, horrible thing, especially seeing as Karkâl is very anti-monarchistic.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo merely sighs again, “does it hold any real, uh... value?”

“It's for show, mostly,” Bofur states, “but still, obviously, people watch it, get all the difficult terms tangled up, get influenced in all the wrong ways...”

“Feels like home,” Bilbo chuckles dryly.

“Professor, I hoped I would find you here.”

That's Balin, patting Bilbo's shoulder gently and leading him out of the room to be able to speak to him clearly.

“I see you've heard the news. His Majesty is very busy today as a result, and so he's decided to cancel Fili's Maths class. Please make sure he stays in his room until it's time for your class with him. Also, you will give your report to me, and I will forward it to the King, I'm afraid there is no time for you to meet him in person.”

“But there are things I wanted to... some issues I wanted to discuss with His Majesty.”

Balin squints at him.

“What issues?”

“I'm assuming he told you about the little... showdown that happened earlier today?”

“Yes, and I must say I am surprised at you, Mister Baggins.”

“Yes, well, I was surprised at _him_! I know it's my, what, third day on the job, but I couldn't simply stand by and watch as he rained hell on his nephew, who was completely innocent in the situation, may I add! I expect I'll learn just how many rules I broke at my first Etiquette class tomorrow, but I can't promise you that'll change my behavior.”

To his surprise, Balin smiles warmly.

“You misunderstand me,” he says, “I am surprised that you took a stand at all. ...But you must understand, the relationship between His Majesty and the Princes has been... strained for quite some time...”

“That's putting it very mildly.”

“... _and_ you weren't hired as a family therapist. You're a _teacher_ first, and I assure you, His Majesty takes immense interest in his nephews' education.”

“That's wonderful, yes, but I for one don't think Fili being home-schooled is the way to go,” Bilbo offers, and when Balin frowns deeply, he continues hastily, “he's suffering here, on his own. He's a clever boy, but he's still just a boy! He needs to be among other kids, and I'm sure that if he were to return to a regular school, he would thrive!”

The Chief of Staff exhales raggedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That,” he replies flatly, “is not up for discussion.”

“But why not?”

“That's just the way it is. Now, is there anything you would like me to make a note of, to tell His Majesty?”

“No, if anything, I should be the one to say those words and get fired over them,” Bilbo states solemnly, and Balin chuckles.

“You might be a bit too brave for your own good, Professor,” he tells him kindly, and Bilbo pfft's.

“His Majesty will be very busy in the coming days. Please, just adhere to his wishes as best you can, will you?”

Bilbo gapes at Balin for some time, but then he sighs, nodding.

“...As best I can,” he concedes.

Which, he decides immediately after, could mean any number of things.

 

The rest of the week flies by, really. Fili is calm during classes, almost worryingly so – he scribbles his notes, and attends all his extracurricular activities, without so much as a word of protest, and Bilbo almost begins to think everything might be alright. However, the schedule is built so that Fili's lessons with his Uncle are always towards the end of the day, and Bilbo soon sees that it's taking his toll on him, having to withstand what can't really be an especially pleasant hour and a half, and that's not even factoring in the subjects. The first time he brings up the idea of rearranging the schedule to Balin, he is dismissed promptly – His Majesty is busy. His Majesty is always busy, of course, in the mornings it's cabinet meetings, during lunch it's... god knows what, preventing him from actually sitting down and sharing a meal with his family, and in the evenings he's usually receiving in his office – all in all, neither Bilbo nor, more importantly, the boys, see very much of him. Bilbo promises himself to make an exceptional effort to sneak in a minute or twenty with His Majesty during the weekend, but in the end, he doesn't even have to try too hard.

He's returning to his quarters on Saturday night, slightly tipsy, his head filled to the brim with Bombur's tirade about Ereborean cuisine, his stomach pleasantly full, his head spinning – he's been to quite a number of wine tastings in his life, but none quite like Bombur's, featuring the best of rosé from the mountains, and the perfectest blue cheese Bilbo has ever had, probably. On his way up the stairs, he manages to miss his floor, which he only realizes upon taking his usual two right turns and ending up in a hallway that certainly looks nothing like the one that leads to his apartment. He blinks blearily at the unfamiliar paintings on the wall, then proceeds to notice the beautiful round rosette window at the far end of the hallway – his brain, though swimming in a haze of pleasant tiredness, manages to connect the dots, and he realizes he's finally seeing the inside of what he's always admired from the outside. He walks to the window and gazes at the courtyard down below, his fingers touching the tinted glass gingerly, admiring the delicacy of it.

“Professor Baggins?”

He swivels to look, lacking any sort of finesse and swaying slightly – the King is eying him from a door to his far left, features illuminated by faint light coming from the room behind him.

“Your Majesty!” Bilbo blubbers, “ah... good evening.”

“Did you come looking for me?” the King asks, without any hint of anger – for the moment.

“No, no, I'm afraid I just got... lost. Missed my floor,” Bilbo stammers, promptly forgetting even _noticing_ that His Majesty is wearing merely a plain shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I should think so,” Thorin says, “these are my quarters.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo exhales, then composes himself, “oh, I'm so sorry. Please, excuse me, oh my, I didn't want to... I didn't mean to intrude. I'll be... I'll be going now.”

“...Actually,” the King offers, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind himself, “do you think you could spare a moment?”

“...Of course!” Bilbo replies, and His Majesty merely nods, striding past him into the darkness of the hallway, obviously expecting him to follow.

Sorely wishing for a glass of water now to chase away the dizziness, Bilbo lets himself be led into a room which the King illuminates by nothing more than a tall lamp in one corner, offering a dim golden glow. It reveals a number of bookshelves (is there a room in the Palace that _doesn't_ have books in it? Bilbo wonders drowsily), as well as a pair of large antique armchairs.

“I'm sorry I didn't find the time to speak to you in person this past week,” Thorin offers, crossing the room and opening what turns out to be a liquor cabinet, “...can I offer you a drink?”

“That's probably not a good idea,” Bilbo mumbles, straining himself not to burp in the presence of a monarch, “I've already had some. ...I hope that's alright,” he adds after a moment's consideration.

To his surprise, the King smiles shortly, but then again, it might just be his tired eyes cheating him.

“Perfectly fine,” he replies, and pours himself a glass of whiskey, then goes to sit in one of the armchairs.

After a moment's consideration, Bilbo does the same.

“I've been reading your daily reports,” His Majesty says simply.

“Oh,” Bilbo mumbles.

“I appreciate the lack of parenting advice in them,” Thorin adds, his voice perfectly level, but Bilbo squints at him nevertheless, not quite sure how to handle his sense of humor, the rare commodity it most certainly is.

“I was told you were, uhm... too busy to handle it,” he mutters, and it is the King's turn to frown.

“I am,” he says firmly, “...Balin tells me you think it would be wise to move Fili's lessons with me to an earlier time? Why is that?”

“Well, erm,” Bilbo clears his throat, making his best effort to gather his quickly scattering thoughts, “the... the subjects alone are rather difficult. But having to concentrate on them after a whole day's worth of lessons with me is next to impossible for Fili, I'm afraid.”

“He excels at both Maths and Physics,” His Majesty offers.

“I'm certain he does. But I'm also certain you'd like him to excel at more than that,” Bilbo replies, “and the truth is... I wouldn't dare doubt your teaching methods, Your Majesty, but, you see, the thing is...”

“...Well?”

“Fili's always very... distraught after your lessons. ...Angry, even. I can't for the life of me get him to concentrate on anything. Which is why I think it would be best for the Maths and Physics lessons to take place as early as possible, while he's still fresh.”

“I see,” the King says, sipping his drink, and Bilbo can see the disappointment in his eyes far too clearly for a fleeting second.

“If you were to reconsider letting me take him outside every now and then...-”

“I have considered it.”

“...Oh?” Bilbo exhales, and His Majesty glares at him as if he's searching for something in his face, then sighs raggedly and hangs his head, swaying the glass in his fingers until its contents spiral in a golden whirlwind. Seemingly preoccupied with the sight, he says quietly: “If you think it could help.”

“I do!” Bilbo says enthusiastically, “I really do!”

Thorin merely nods, his gaze still averted, and Bilbo feels sorry for him then, his cluelessness when it comes to his nephews, and his plight altogether – he almost goes and offers his condolences, or his sympathies, but stops himself. It's not his place.

“Fili will have something to look forward to,” he declares clearly instead, “not every day, mind you, of course not. Say, twice a week, three times if he behaves? Just the lessons that don't include taking notes. I thought I would have him read to me, every now and then, and that's certainly something that can be done anywhere...”

The King is gazing at him now, his chin resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest, and the blush that creeps into Bilbo's cheeks has less to do with the alcohol coursing through his veins, and more with His Majesty's eyes gleaming in the dim light of the lamp, his look piercing, but not unkind. Then Thorin seems to remember himself, and he exhales, his shoulders slumping, and rakes his hand through his hair.

“Very well,” he mumbles, “but you must understand that my mornings are often reserved for cabinet meetings. ...Would it be suitable for you to meet me tomorrow after lunch, to revisit the timetable?”

“Yes, of course!” Bilbo replies.

“Excellent,” the King mumbles, then, as if he's straining to remember something, “I... do apologize for my nephew's inappropriate behavior earlier this week. ...And mine. It was not exactly professional.”

Bilbo chuckles incredulously.

“It certainly wasn't,” he says earnestly, “but with all due respect, Your Majesty, perhaps I'm not the one you should be apologizing to? ...Fili did nothing wrong,” he adds gently when Thorin's brow furrows.

“I beg to differ,” the King scowls.

“Please don't take this the wrong way,” Bilbo declares, not entirely sure if he should be saying this at all, but also momentarily blissfully ignorant of the possible consequences, “but I think it's fair to say anger is your older nephew's default emotion when it comes to your presence. It's unfortunate, but easily fixed...-”

“Parenting advice again, Professor,” the King exhales.

“You're not their parent.”

He knows he's crossed a line even before he finishes the sentence – Thorin's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching, and his glare turns from piercing to outright scorching. Bilbo gulps.

“...Forgive me,” he says quietly, “perhaps I should have said... they don't see you as one. And that's alright, they've barely had time to adjust. It's just that... were you to consider a change in your approach, I really believe that you would find that there's much room for improvement. They are lovely boys – you're very lucky they didn't suffer more with the loss of their parents.”

The silence that follows is heavy on the King's side, and a bit breathless on Bilbo's – he's not really sure where all those words came from, and something tells him he's going to regret them at one point or another. His Majesty closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, then stands up abruptly, looming over Bilbo, who suddenly wishes he were able to melt into the expensive upholstery and never come out.

“Thank you for your input,” the King says, and it sounds much more like 'you're a dead man'.

He walks past Bilbo and holds the door open for him.

“Good night, Professor.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but realizes it's no use. Not right now, anyway. He sighs deeply and clears his throat, striding out into the hallway, taking special care to cast one last look at His Majesty, no matter his heart hammering, and put just the right amount of indignation into his: “Good night, Your Majesty.”

“Two PM sharp tomorrow, my office.”

“As you wish.” _Your emotionally constipated Majesty_.

Bilbo walks away then, briskly, and looking back over his shoulder at the corner of the hallway and seeing that the King is still there, glaring at him with his hands folded behind his back, is enough to go to sleep that night feeling not angry, but strangely accomplished.

 

Their meeting the next day, however clinically cold and reserved it is, results in a new timetable that both Bilbo and Fili are extremely happy with. The very first official lesson outside is set for Tuesday afternoon, and the boy behaves absolutely flawlessly throughout Monday, and even comes from his Tuesday morning Maths lesson with his Uncle with much less resentment than usual. Bilbo is proud of both Fili and himself, honestly, and when he drives to pick up Kili from school, he gets a small innocent idea that the younger Prince condones happily. Upon arriving at the Palace, they hurry to the boys' quarters, and find Fili there as expected, but to their surprise, the King is with him.

Kili isn't fazed by that in the slightest, and hurries to his big brother, offering up the large cup of strawberry shake they'd bought for him.

“Fee, look! It's for you!” the boy exclaims, “Mister Bilbo said you deserved it, and he bought me banana! And then I had to be really careful when we were driving!”

“The seats were in grave danger the whole time,” Bilbo chuckles, smiling even though the look the King casts him is not exactly warm, and largely unreadable.

Fili takes the cup from his brother's hands almost reverently.

“ _Âkmînruk zu_ ,“ he says, “uh... thank you.”

“ _Yamal,_ ” Bilbo smiles, receiving a giggle from Kili, and an approving nod from Fili – he's only had very little time to study Khuzdul so far, but Balin gave him a very helpful list of common sayings during their first Etiquette class, and Bilbo's ability to remember new words quickly and painlessly has not deserted him.

“Your Majesty,” he turns to Thorin, who seems somewhat lost in thought, “Kili tells me he is taking part in a school play, and that the premiere is next Friday! I promised him I would be there, of course,” he chuckles as Kili clutches onto his hand and sways it around, doing a little excited dance, “and I thought perhaps Fili could come as well!”

“ _Kahomhîlizu_ , _Indâd!_ Please!” Kili pleads, so heartfelt that Bilbo is outright touched, gazing at the King expectantly.

“Out of the question,” His Majesty remains unswayed, “Fili and me were just talking about how little improvement there's been to his behavior. An outing is something one must deserve.”

Fili slurps on his shake loudly, shrugging, while Kili looks from Thorin to Bilbo, eyes large and confused.

“Your Majesty, a moment alone?” Bilbo says sternly, straining not to let his building anger show in front of the boys, motioning towards the door with his head when the King frowns at him, “please?”

Thorin scowls even further, but follows him into the hallway, and the second the door is closed, Bilbo turns to him harshly.

“I really think Fili is trying his absolute best, Your Majesty,” he all but hisses, “I fail to see how a short trip could be a setback!”

“He doesn't deserve any trips, Professor,” the King retorts, “not yet. I agree, there has been some minor improvement in the past week, but you yourself have witnessed it – he's still entirely too brash for his own good.”

“That's because he's _bored!_ ” Bilbo exclaims entirely too desperately, “how long has it been since he was expelled, a _year?_ This is not about _deserving_ – he has no friends, nowhere to go but the Palace grounds! Don't you think that's a bit harsh? He's _thirteen years old!_ ”

The King's eyes narrow even further, and he opens his mouth to say something – for a short moment, Bilbo thinks he might actually relent, but then he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I'm teaching my nephew a lesson you clearly can't, Professor Baggins,” he says firmly, and Bilbo's mouth hangs agape – he'd like to offer another sharp reply, but he's rendered speechless by His Majesty's sheer, sad ignorance.

“You know, you'd do well to remember that more often. ...That he's your nephew,” he offers at last, quietly and coolly, “not your prisoner.”

He scrutinizes Thorin's face for any sliver of emotion, but if anything, his brow furrows even more menacingly. Bilbo remembers their talk the other night, and can't help but wonder where all that... vulnerability has gone. Perhaps it was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

“I've said my part,” the King utters curtly, “and that is the end of that. I would appreciate it if you didn't give my nephews any sort of false hopes, Professor. Make sure they're ready for their afternoon program, thank you.”

And with that, sparing one last stern look at Bilbo, he marches away, and Bilbo hasn't flipped anyone off in ages, but right now, he's really fighting the impulse. But before he can so much as groan in exasperation, the door to the boys' room opens, and Kili wanders out, grabbing his hand with both of his, tugging gently.

“Will you help me with my homework now?” he asks, and as Bilbo gazes down at his little honest face, he feels his anger dulling down to a sort of irritation.

“Of course,” he smiles, suddenly feeling tired, and ruffles Kili's hair, ushering him back inside, “let's do it.”

“No luck?” Fili asks matter-of-factly from his computer.

“...I'm sorry.”

“That's fine,” the Prince shrugs, “you get credit for trying. ...Is that the right phrase?”

Bilbo can't help but chuckle.

“It is. ...And thank you,” he says, sitting down on the carpet and letting Kili pile his books and notebooks in his lap, “we'll get him to come around eventually.”

“Right,” Fili pfft's – the utter disdain in his voice never fails to give Bilbo pause.

“Your Uncle can't help it,” he mumbles, “he just has a lot on his plate, I think.”

The boy finally turns away from the computer to look at Bilbo over his shoulder, frowning in genuine confusion.

“...What, like... he eats too much?” he inquires, and Kili giggles.

“Oh, you don't know what that means?” Bilbo chuckles softly, and Fili shakes his head, so he adds, “alright, well, to _have a lot on one's plate_ means one has a great deal to worry about – a lot of work, and problems. Which, your Uncle certainly does.”

“Right, like too much... what was it? Food for thought?” the boy wonders.

“Not exactly,” Bilbo laughs, but when he sees the Prince's face falling, he continues quickly, “or, well, yes – in a way. I'm pleased to see you remember at least some of the idioms.”

“I-di-ooms,” Kili repeats absentmindedly, and Fili turns back to his computer, muttering, “English is such a weird language.”

“Well, your own is not exactly a walk in the park, either,” Bilbo laughs as Kili flicks through his books, and the older Prince laughs, swiveling in his chair.

“Is that an idiom, too? 'Walk in the park'?,” he exclaims, and when Bilbo nods, he grins, “you're kidding. Can we take a walk in the park today, and you'll tell me about 'walk in the park'?”

Bilbo affirms that, and marvels at the genuine amusement with which Fili regards that, repeating the phrase to himself over and over again, turning his attention back to the computer. For one, Bilbo is glad he seems largely unaffected by the King's behavior, but then there's something infinitely sad about a thirteen-year-old boy being so good at shutting away the unpleasant. It's like it never happened.

Bilbo turns this over in his head for the rest of the day, taking special care to observe the boy as they do, in fact, take a walk in the park later on, but he seems more interested in all the new books Bilbo offers up for reading, than talking about his Uncle. That is when Bilbo learns that no matter how smart Fili is, he greatly lacks in knowledge when it comes to good literature – apparently, his parents would read Harry Potter to him as a bedtime story (never getting past the third book, which is, well, smart, given the boy's age and the way the story unfolds), and he knows a lot of classic fairy tales, mainly because he got to watch the Disney movie versions of them. But other than that, he's blissfully ignorant.

In the rest of the lesson, Bilbo lets him describe to him all the Ereborean fairy tales (which turn out to be a special breed of mystically creepy), already coming up with a list of literature that he'd like to make the Prince read.

As they're returning to the Palace, slowly and by a path that takes them far enough from the main courtyard, so that they don't risk bumping into the King again, Fili seems to have something on his mind, and Bilbo doesn't press it, though he's curious, letting him take his time.

“Kili wants a bedtime story,” the boy blurts out of nowhere at last when they're crossing the backyard.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he... wants me to read to him, but I'm not... not so good,” Fili mumbles, suddenly a bit nervous, “we haven't had... _he_ hasn't had anyone read to him since...”

“I understand,” Bilbo says softly, and watches the boy kicking the white gravel around for a while, hand in his pockets, “I'll pick something that both of you would enjoy, and bring it around tonight, alright?”

Fili frowns at first, as if he has something else to add, but then he glances at Bilbo, even smiling shortly.

“...Thanks,” he utters.

“No problem,” Bilbo sighs, and watches him as he hurries towards the Palace.

 

That evening, he rummages through the collection of books he's brought from England, and realizes it sorely lacks in young adult literature – there's Robinson Crusoe, which he dismisses promptly, and Oliver Twist, which is... well, perhaps a bit too depressing... The small, thick book is tucked away deep down in the suitcase, and Bilbo fishes it out almost reverently – how could he have forgotten? He runs his thumb across the bright blue cover, the gold embossing, _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ in large, beautiful letters, and wonders if it isn't perhaps a bit too complicated for the boys. Promising himself to update his library as soon as possible, he brings it with him to their quarters nevertheless, sitting down right in the middle, where the sliding door separates their rooms.

“What's it about?” Fili wants to know after he tells them the title.

“It's about a boy, Tom, who runs away from home with his friends,” Bilbo announces, “and that's not even his most exciting adventure, I dare say. But you must promise me you won't take after him and pack up and leave the Palace in the middle of the night one day.”

“No promises,” Fili giggles, and Kili moans, “now read! Please.”

Bilbo smiles, putting his glasses on and cracking the book open.

“Alright then. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain. ... _Tom! No answer. Tom!! No answer. What's gone with that boy, I wonder-_ ”

“Are there pictures?”

“I'm afraid not. Hush. ... _What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You Tom! No answer..._ ”

 

Kili is asleep before he even finishes the introduction, and Fili's eyes are gleaming at him from his bed as he stands up and bids him good night.

“'Night,” the Prince mumbles, “will you come tomorrow, too?”

“Of course!” Bilbo whispers, “do you like it so far?”

“Yeah,” the boy smiles sleepily, “I want adventures, too.”

“And you'll have them, I promise,” Bilbo tells him, patting his shoulder gently, “but not without proper sleep. Good night.”

All in all, he thinks as he walks out of the room quietly and makes his way outside to join his new friends in the staff building, it certainly won't be the first or the last time quality literature has made a young boy long for a bit of excitement. Walking across the courtyard, the breeze unbelievably warm considering it's barely the end of March, he turns to the last page of the book. It's still there, big clumsy letters written in pencil, _property of Bilbo Baggins,_ and in much neater handwriting, adorned with a couple of flowers, _Belladonna Baggins._ His mother would read it to him when he was about halfway between Kili and Fili when it came to age, and he, too, wanted to run away from home and go exploring back then.

And, well, it might have taken a bit longer than he'd anticipated, but here he is, after all – the greatest adventure of his life. Perhaps they will think him dead back home, too, he muses, chuckling to himself – his thoughts quickly travel back to the boys, though, and by the time he's drinking tea with the others in the cafeteria, he's managed to come up with an idea that might be perhaps a bit too adventurous, but certainly fun, and, come to think of it, taking risks has gotten him... everywhere so far.

* * *

**Dictionary:**

_êkurikaglâb_ \- debate

_Ghelekhizu!_ \- Behave yourself!

_Indâd_ \- Uncle

_Kahomhîlizu_ \- Please

_Katakhigerizu!_ \- Screw you!

_Yamal_ \- You’re welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, well. Thorin was unnecessarily harsh this time, but I promise there's a reason for that! To think I started this as a happy-go-lucky fix it AU and am now getting all tangled up in tragic pasts and family issues... ANYWAY, I hope you guys liked this chapter, thank you for your continuous support, it really means a lot :') A special shout-out to [Laura](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebigspoon), who continues to be the most wonderful beta and advisor one could wish for <3


	5. Chapter 5

Some decisions are brash, but excellent; some are just brash, and barely redeemable. And some... well, some are just outright stupid. Bilbo has made a fair share of all of those in his life, but if there's anything he's learned, it's that it's sometimes hard to see past one's excitement and actually tell which one is currently being made. However, the decisions that start with ' _nobody needs to know_ ' tend to result in trouble. Yes, he's going to write that down.

It all starts out so innocently – His Majesty is very busy because of the upcoming debate, and despite Bilbo's gentle suggestions, doesn't plan on coming to Kili's play, or, for that matter, on letting Fili come. Bilbo is determined to at least get his hands on a video recording of it, to let the older Prince see his brother perform, and it's all perfectly innocent. Up to a point. Up to a very specific point, when Bilbo learns that both the King and Balin will be gone overnight the day of the play, and he begins _planning._ Sensible planning, now, there's nothing wrong with that. Considering the consequences, and making sure the idea is worth it – that's smart.

Disregarding all that and concentrating on an intricate web of half-truths, never doubting the outcome, now that's... stupid. It's for the sake of the boys, though, he tells himself. Yes, that's the main point of focus here. Their faces when Bilbo tells them they're both coming to the play, are priceless, and definitely worth it. Fili sorely needs an outing before he explodes, and somehow, that's enough for Bilbo – he's doing the right thing, yes, certainly.

In hindsight, his problem has always been that 'doing the right thing' in his life would usually come with breaking as many rules as possible. And, a rebel by heart, Bilbo fails to see the issue with that – which, well... which has been the bane of much greater men than himself.

But the Palace is so quiet on Friday, and him and Fili share lunch almost peacefully, even though the boy is just about bursting at the seams with sheer excitement, and everything just seems so... right. Bilbo canceled the Prince's usual afternoon horse-riding lesson the day before, the official reason being him taking what Bilbo describes as a very important test, and no one seemed to protest. When Bofur learned of his plan – because somehow, Bofur always learns about everything – he merely raised an eyebrow and wished him good luck, suggesting he packs up, just in case he's kicked out on the curb the next day. Perhaps Bilbo should have taken his warning more seriously, despite it being accompanied by the usual grin and wink.

But what is done is done, and Bilbo forgets all his worries when he watches Fili's face through the rear-view mirror as they drive out of the Palace – the boy's eyes are so large as he gazes out of the window. He's so excited, and Bilbo is overjoyed. What can be wrong about making a child this happy?

The play is glorious, this or that Ereborean fairy tale containing a fair amount of animals – Kili contributes as the main rabbit, his make up and a pair long fluffy ears the most adorable thing Bilbo has seen in a while. Fili giggles and translates portions of the simple Khuzdul dialogue to Bilbo in hushed tones as best he can, and all in all, they have a wonderful time of it. Of course afterward, Bilbo takes them to the pastry shop that sells their favorite milkshakes, treating them both to the extra-large versions of the banana and strawberry delights, and they take a walk around the city, too, even though Bilbo doesn't know it at all.

The weather is amazing, just a couple of days to go until April – everything is just beginning to bloom, and the breeze is fresh and warm. Checking his watch and deciding they've enough time, Bilbo announces a stop in a park in the very center of the city, and the boys spend the next hour at the most amazing playground Bilbo has ever seen, very hi-tech and colorful, offering something for virtually all ages. Kili's giggling as his swing sways faster and faster with his brother's assistance, and Fili's victorious grin as he hangs upside down from one of the rainbow-striped climbing frames, his golden mane all but ablaze in the afternoon sun, are enough for Bilbo to feel very accomplished. The boys chatter and laugh on the way back home, and it's enough of a thank you.

When his phone buzzes gently, announcing a message of importance, Bilbo controls his face painstakingly, not letting his sudden spike in nervousness show. It's a general staff memo from Balin – change of plans, the King is staying home overnight, please adjust accordingly, et cetera. Bilbo very pointedly _doesn't_ swear under his breath, simply grips the steering wheel a little tighter and curses inwardly at the fickle nature of monarchs. There is no ' _if they're lucky',_ he realizes – he _is_ going to run into the King, and there _will_ be a confrontation, and how did he ever expect any other outcome, really?

His Majesty's limousine is already lounging in the garage when they arrive, and Bilbo very carefully pays it no mind – he ushers the boys out, chest suddenly constricted in worry. No matter doing the best possible thing for Fili and Kili – the King will be furious. A ragged sigh escapes him when he sees Balin waiting for them at the entrance staircase, his hands folded behind his back, his face like chiseled marble, stern and unmoving. When they approach him, he gives Bilbo a look sharp enough to fell trees, then turns to Kili with a fond smile.

“How was the play, Your Highness?”

“It was great!” the boy exclaims, “I was a rabbit, and then we were in the city, and there was a swing, and a, a...”

“A carousel,” Fili adds, “we were at a playground.”

The look he casts Bilbo is shockingly knowing, but Bilbo merely nods and smiles reassuringly.

“Well, that sounds excellent,” Balin says, “Fili, would you please take your brother to your quarters now?”

The Prince opens his mouth to say something, glancing from Balin to Bilbo, frowning slightly, but Bilbo says: “It's alright, Fili. Go, I'll see you after dinner.”

“Go on,” Balin affirms.

“I just don't want you to be in trouble,” the boy says surprisingly earnestly, and though Balin sighs deeply, Bilbo smiles again, encouragingly.

“I'm not in any trouble, I promise you,” he states, “now go. Hurry up!”

Fili lingers for a bit, but then sighs, grabbing his brother's hand and leading him away, looking back over his shoulder a couple of times.

“You really shouldn't lie to the boys,” Balin says icily, the second they're out of earshot, and Bilbo hangs his head.

“Agreed,” he mumbles, “this is... I was just thinking...”

“Were you?” Balin hisses, “were you _thinking_ at all? Do you even realize what _His Majesty_ was thinking, coming home and finding out his nephews are gone?!”

“I'm sorry, I know, but I'm-”

“No,” Balin cuts him off, and there's nothing of his usual kindness in his features, “you _don't know._ Follow me. Now.”

 

Well, that didn't last long, Bilbo muses, trotting behind the Chief through hallways upon hallways. And he liked the job, too. Didn't even last a month – not that he particularly cares for the salary, but still... Utterly lost in his thoughts, he doesn't realize they've already reached the King's office. Balin stops, glaring at him and ushering him inside with a small gesture.

“I'm-” Bilbo starts, but the Chief stops him with a curt shake of his head.

“Anything that you have to say, say to him,” he says, his hand still poised for Bilbo to go in.

He sighs raggedly, nodding, and walks inside – a second before he closes the door behind himself, Balin's face falls from strict to somewhat pained, and Bilbo does feel immensely sorry then, though he's not yet sure why. Inhaling deeply, he turns to look at the King at last. He sits behind his large desk, his suit jacket draped over the side of his armchair, and he's seemingly preoccupied with scribbling in some document. It's the first time Bilbo sees him wearing glasses, a simple silver pair, and they are very becoming, but also make him look even stricter, older, more worried.

“Good evening, Professor,” he utters dully, not even looking up at Bilbo.

“Ah, erm... evening,” Bilbo stammers, “you're back early.”

Thorin does glance at him then, a glare so piercing it almost renders Bilbo breathless.

“Journalists are very fickle these days,” His Majesty offers vaguely, “I _was_ looking forward to a peaceful evening at home. Imagine my surprise when I got here and found that _both_ of my nephews were away.”

“Your Majesty, I assure you, everything went absolutely wonderful. Their safety is my utmost concern, but so is their happiness, and I was just thinking-”

“Yes, Professor, _please_ tell me what you were thinking,” the King retorts, leaning back in his chair, taking his glasses off, and when Bilbo's gaze darts to the ground, he chuckles humorlessly, “were you perhaps thinking that I _don't_ care for my nephews' safety, _or_ their happiness?”

“No, I...”

“Must I remind you over and over again what your actual job description is?” Thorin continues, and his voice is at that dangerously quiet, flat level, that only ever hints at the anger boiling under the surface, “you are to teach Fili, pick up Kili from school, and assist with making their free time as enjoyable as possible _within the boundaries I've set for them._ That's it.”

“But, Your Majesty, if you were to simply consider-”

“No, I am _not_ going to _simply consider_ anything beyond firing you on the spot, Professor,” the King declares clearly, now glaring at Bilbo outright, almost as if he's challenging him.

(And it's one of his more prominent flaws, he is beginning to realize, that he sees a challenge in _every single_ tense situation.)

“You disobeyed what I considered to be a _direct order,_ and you put the heir to the throne in danger, not to mention your blatant ignorance of every single-”

“Oh, you're bloody _joking,_ ” Bilbo exclaims before he can stop himself – he knows he's in trouble before he even finishes the sentence, but somehow, he can't bring himself to care, “what _danger_ are we talking about exactly? Milkshakes and feeding ducks? Yes, I'm sure it could have cost the boy his life! Oh no, wait, it was the other way around – he actually _had the time of his life!_ I've never seen him as happy here in the Palace, with all its riches and, and beautiful bloody _gardens,_ as he was right there on that stupid playground, running around with his brother! You know what, I don't care if this costs me my job, but I have to say it – you _need to let him out._ Let him go to a proper school, let him make friends, and hate his classes, and kick the ball around. You _must see_ he's not happy-”

“Enough.”

That one word is enough to shut Bilbo up more or less effectively – he deflates quickly at the sight of the King rising from his desk, eyes bewildered and furious, and he actually has to strain himself not to take a step back.

“That's enough,” His Majesty repeats, quieter now as he steps closer to Bilbo, retaining a properly menacing air still, “you're right.”

Bilbo's eyes widen.

“I...”

“This should cost you your job.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, blinking helplessly, but shuts it again when no words come out, sighing heavily.

“And will it?” he asks quietly.

The King doesn't reply, merely glares, and Bilbo glares back, defiant even though his heart is fluttering in his chest frantically. They both jolt in mild shock when the door flies open, and Kili rushes in, followed closely by his brother.

“ _Indâd, Indâd,_ you can't fire Mister Bilbo, please!” the younger Prince cries earnestly, the image of him almost running into the impossibly tall King ridiculously touching.

“It was all my fault, I swear,” Fili adds hastily, coming to stand by his brother's side, “I made Bilbo take me with, I didn't mean to...”

“I'm so sorry, Your Majesty, I couldn't stop the boys in time,” Balin comes in as well, somewhat breathlessly.

The King's eyes dart from him, to the boys, to Bilbo, who sighs and steps to the boys, putting his hands on their shoulders.

“Fili, Kili, I appreciate the sentiment,” he says gently, but firmly, “but this is something me and your Uncle need to talk about in private.”

“No, please, Uncle!” Kili exclaims, and Bilbo gasps when he grabs his hand with both of his – Thorin notices immediately, and his face contorts in pain for a fleeting second.

“I want Mister Bilbo to stay, please!” Kili continues, and Fili steps closer to Bilbo as well, his jaw set tight, eyes gleaming defiantly as he says, so coldly that Bilbo can't help but feel immensely sorry for the King: “ _Promise me_ you won't fire him. _Promise._ Or I'll _never_ talk to you again.”

The pain is evident in His Majesty's face then, his eyes filling with helplessness and disbelief, and it's enough for Bilbo's compassion to really kick in.

“Boys, _that's enough,_ ” he says strictly, “go back to your quarters now. I'll find you later. I'm _serious._ ”

Kili sniffs, his eyes large and worried as he looks up at Bilbo, who squeezes his shoulder gently.

“Please don't go,” the Prince mutters so earnestly that Bilbo feels his chest constrict achingly – he shouldn't be the one on the receiving end of such an affection.

But before he can bring himself to respond, Balin steps in, taking the boy's hand gently.

“Come, lad,” he says softly, then, more sternly, “Fili.”

But the King's and the older Prince's gazes are interlocked now, Fili's bordering on furious, Thorin's now stone cold as usual.

“Manners, Fili,” His Majesty says simply, firmly, followed by a short sentence in Khuzdul that Bilbo can't quite understand.

But the boy gasps as if he's been struck, face falling, eyes welling with tears almost instantly. He looks from Thorin to Bilbo, then back to Thorin, and breathes out, curt, dry, lifeless: “I hate you.” Then he storms out, followed closely by Balin with Kili, the younger boy stumbling as he looks back at Bilbo over his shoulder.

Balin shuts the door entirely too loudly for Bilbo's tastes – he almost flinches. The King exhales raggedly, brushing his hand over his face in a moment of weakness, then crosses the room, seemingly ignoring Bilbo altogether, and pours himself a glass of alcohol from a liquor cabinet by the tall window. Bilbo watches him sink back into his armchair, and he feels well and truly horrible.

“Your Majesty, I am _so_ sorry-”

“If you intend to keep your job, Mister Baggins,” the King interrupts him, clearly but colorlessly, “you will leave me immediately.”

“I...”

“ _Don't_ push your luck,” the King retorts, not looking at Bilbo once, the setting sun framing his features in soft golden hues, making him appear much more at peace than he really is, Bilbo knows.

He lingers for a moment, but Thorin is like a statue, doesn't look at him once, and so Bilbo hangs his head and leaves, groaning the second he's out of earshot, swearing under his breath fervently. He wants to hurry to the Princes' quarters immediately, but is stopped in his tracks by Balin, who snatches him in the Main Hall. His stern look is more than enough to make Bilbo follow him obediently, and he's thinking about his future and general life choices so passionately that he doesn't even notice Balin is not leading him to his office, but rather deeper into the Common Wing of the Palace, the one with all the exhibitions and ballrooms and offices. They stop in a wide gallery, completely deserted now and swimming in the remnants of the pinkish haze of sunset, and Balin turns to him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I take it you haven't had time to read up on our most recent history yet, have you?” he asks the question Bilbo is certainly expecting the least.

“I, um...” he manages, “I'm afraid not, no. But I was wondering-”

“Well, you're getting a lesson _now,_ ” Balin cuts him off sharply, “and for once, please, _listen._ ”

Bilbo's mouth hangs agape for a moment, but he realizes quickly enough that the Chief is serious, and so he merely nods. Balin grants him one last sharp look, and goes to the wall, switching on a row of spotlights, illuminating the large paintings. Bilbo has been telling himself to go and see those on his own for some time now, but never really had a moment off... He steps closer, and Balin says: “This is Thror I – Thorin's grandfather. He was King before the revolution.”

Thorin's sharp features certainly take after the man in the painting – Thror is much older in it, but the wrinkles simply make him appear even more regal, stonewalled by his life.

“Thror was a very firm leader,” Balin continues, “his reign was long, and brought immense prosperity to the country. Still, many thought him too cruel – he didn't have much appreciation for the small businessman, for example. No patience for those who didn't try hard enough. Erebor was a place you had to _deserve_ to live in. He had always been supportive of the poor and the elderly, but towards the end of his time...”

Balin falters, as if he's not certain whether to divulge the next bit of information at all, but then he merely sighs.

“Thror suffered from mental illness,” he says at last, flatly, “of course the Crown made every attempt to keep that fact private, but the truth is, it affected his decisions greatly, and even though his son, Thrain-” Balin gestures towards another painting, depicting a man about Thorin's age, with somewhat softer features than both his father and the current King, “was of age, Thror refused to abdicate and leave the throne to him. He made a series of very... very radical decisions in the end, a pension reform that angered many, and many adjustments to a number of business laws, I won't bore you with the details. The point is, people were getting angry, and the King was getting weaker; the whole idea of monarchy with him, of course. The public's support for the Crown was dwindling, and new political parties arose quickly. Long story short, the Azanulbizar revolution happened because of a series of speeches Thror gave, about 'returning to the basics' and 'stripping the nation of anything unnecessarily dangerous to the Crown'. He wanted to rename the capital, reinstate the obsolete form of royalty, even dissolve the Senate. People were, naturally, furious. Strikes followed, and public demonstrations. Then, the assassination.”

A ragged gasp escapes Bilbo's lips, but Balin merely gazes at the painting of the old King, features perfectly calm.

“It was a botched attempt,” the Chief says, “the King was only injured, but he was so paranoid at the time, he refused to let a proper hospital treat him. He died here, in the Palace, behind a number of locked doors, letting no one but his personal physician and his grandson in.”

“...His grandson,” Bilbo mumbles.

“Thror didn't even trust his own son,” Balin nods, “he thought Thrain was trying to 'steal the crown from him'. Thorin, in the meantime... He had been there for him since the very start, nursed him through the sickness, never even attempted to hint at his dwindling sanity, even though he knew it was destroying the country.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo sighs.

“We are far from finished,” Balin utters curtly, “...Thrain, unlike his father, _was_ killed successfully. The anti-monarchists were rising in power, and he made the foolish decision to face them head-on. All of this – both the King and his heir dying – happened in the span of about a month. The country was falling apart, and there was no one left to save it but Thorin. At thirty-two years of age, he was too young to handle the responsibility, of course, but he stepped up, and managed to save the Crown in the end. The monarchy is actually a public favorite these days, did you know? All thanks to Thorin. It's only been _ten years._ ”

“I can't even imagine...” Bilbo begins, but Balin chuckles dryly, interrupting him with a simple gesture of his hand, motioning him to come see yet another painting.

“No, you really can't,” the Chief says.

Bilbo is confused at first – the boy on the painting looks like a slightly older Fili, and he doesn't recognize the young woman next to him, but then it clicks. She has the same sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes as Thorin, her raven hair framing her face nicely.

“Princess Dís,” Balin affirms, “the boys' mother. And Prince Frerin, the youngest of the three.”

“...I didn't know they had a brother...” Bilbo exhales.

“That's because we rarely speak of him. He died during the revolution as well, Professor.”

Balin almost looks like he's expecting him to say something, but Bilbo merely gapes at the painting, and begins to feel... well, mainly like he _really_ didn't sign on for any of this, but also like a fool for thinking that emotional constipation was all that prevented the King from connecting with his nephews.

“I'm sorry, I...” he stammers, and Balin merely sighs.

“You must understand,” he offers quietly, “His Majesty had witnessed the deaths of three family members in quick succession, and had a country to command at a very young age, _and_ managed to do so excellently despite all of that. Princess Dís was his greatest support throughout all of it, and her little son was... was the promise of a new hope, if you'll forgive my pathos. It may not seem like it most of the time, but Thorin really is doing all of this because of his nephews. _For_ them. He made a promise, both to himself and his sister, to make Erebor a country worth raising her children in, and I think he succeeded, don't you? ...I imagine Fili being the spitting image of his own little brother is enough of a reason for him to... keep his distance.”

“Or the reason to close it,” Bilbo replies faintly, now gazing at the painting of the current King himself, very majestic in his dark uniform.

His chest aches for Thorin then, for his larger-than-life plight, for what's left of his family... This is the stuff of... if not fairy tales, then certainly some very grim history lessons, and Bilbo can't really believe it all happened only ten years ago. Was there really so little news coverage about it back then? he tries to remember. Anyhow, he manages to make at least some sense of why the King refuses to engage his nephews, and it's all very tragic, and honestly heartbreaking, but still... Bilbo can't help but retain the belief that reconciling His Majesty with the boys could improve the whole situation greatly. _Not your place,_ an increasingly weaker part of his conscience reminds him, and, _you might be going home tomorrow. This might all still be a dream. You didn't come here to fix Kings and their kingdoms. ...You didn't want to come here at all in the first place, remember?_

“I believe I owe His Majesty an apology,” he states at last, softly, and to his surprise, Balin chuckles.

“Oh, yes,” he replies, “but most importantly, you owe him your respect. Trust me when I say that his losses trouble him every day of his life, but he certainly has no need for the sympathies of strangers. He requires his space, and his time to cope, and you _must_ respect that, Professor.”

“...I do,” Bilbo offers, feeling vaguely offended for some reason, “I just wonder if he's really getting it. His time and space, that is.”

When Balin merely frowns, he adds: “He has one of the hardest jobs in the world, I dare say, and from what you told me, I understand he never really had a choice. Which is all well and good, blood rights and all that, but even Kings need to... well, talk.”

“Are you suggesting you'd like to be his therapist?” Balin chuckles incredulously.

“Oh no,” Bilbo pfft's, “ _god_ no. Just that he might need one.”

The Chief simply continues to glare at him, narrowing his eyes, and Bilbo shrugs somewhat cheekily, at which Balin finally sighs, shaking his head.

“Should I go pack my bags now?” Bilbo asks, deciding to push his luck after all, and receives yet another deadly glare, but without any sort of really threatening edge.

“What you _should_ do, is go check on the Princes,” Balin declares, then, with the faintest hint of a smile, “this lesson is over.”

“I'll remember it.”

“I certainly hope so. I would also ask you to leave His Majesty to his makings for the rest of the weekend – the debate takes place on Monday, as I'm sure you're aware.”

Bilbo frowns momentarily, something nagging at the back of his mind, but he dismisses it quickly, nodding and hurrying away, trying very hard not to let anything of what he just heard affect him too much. Though he's sure he will need a drink tonight.

 

Kili is in his room, cheerfully assembling a puzzle on the ground when Bilbo enters, but his brother is nowhere to be seen.

“He was at dinner,” the boy says when Bilbo asks him, “but then he said he was gonna hide, and he told me not to follow him. ...Are you going home now?”

“I'm not,” Bilbo replies absentmindedly, “but listen, we need to find him! We're supposed to start the third chapter of Tom's adventures today, remember?”

“Tom runs away!” Kili nods excitedly, and Bilbo is about to offer some sort of response, but then it hits him, and it hits him hard.

 _Tom runs away._ Oh, _no._ Perhaps that book wasn't the best choice after all.

After assuring Kili that he will return with his brother in no time, he all but dashes out of the room, his heart suddenly hammering at thousand beats a minute, and he only hopes he's right in assuming where Fili went, because if he's not, then the boy could be anywhere, and...

He almost collides with His Majesty on the stairs, the King's firm grip on his shoulder the only thing saving him from a nasty tumble.

“Professor, what on earth is the matter?” Thorin gapes at him.

_...Right._

“I, erm...” Bilbo stammers breathlessly, “...were you going to see the boys?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” the King replies sternly, “I wanted to speak with them.”

“Why?” Bilbo asks, straightening his sweater, just about ready to bolt again and leave the King standing right where he is.

“...To apologize, if you must know,” His Majesty says then, and a desperate whimper escapes Bilbo's lips.

“Oh, _wonderful,_ ” he groans, and Thorin frowns menacingly.

“ _What_ is going on?” he demands.

“Oh, I'm not sure,” Bilbo exhales earnestly, “but I think... I _think_ Fili is somewhere out there on the premises, pretty angry for _some_ reason.”

And he really wants to be angry too, but the King's face falls absolutely desperately.

“...He's trying to run away?” he says feebly.

“Let's hope he's just trying to have a moment to himself, shall we?” Bilbo replies, “let's go.”

Thorin gazes at him a bit cluelessly for a moment, and Bilbo isn't actually so sure it's a good idea, bringing him along, but he's really ceasing to care, honestly.

“Come on!” he barks and takes the stairs by two on his way down, not even taking the time to check if the King is following him, but then he matches his stride, sighing entirely too earnestly: “This is my fault.”

“No, no,” Bilbo scowls, “if anything, it's Tom Sawyer's fault.”

“...I'm sorry?”

“I'll explain everything later, I promise. What I'm trying to say is, it's my fault, and I'm sorry, I just-”

“Your Majesty? Is everything alright?”

That's Dwalin, the Head of Security, standing by the door, breaking off a conversation with a couple of the guards when he sees Thorin and Bilbo approaching.

“...Everything's fine, Dwalin,” the King states firmly, “ _stand down._ Me and Professor Baggins are simply...”

“Taking a walk!” Bilbo offers hastily.

“...A walk,” Dwalin's eyes narrow in a frown almost eerily similar to that of his brother.

“Yes, a walk,” Thorin says, “ _is there a problem?_ ”

His tone is so curt Dwalin straightens up almost immediately, stating clearly: “No problem at all, Your Majesty! Enjoy!”

And Bilbo will have to try and find out more about the nature of the strange look the Head of Security and the King exchange, but now is really not the time. They hurry out into the courtyard, and night has fallen completely in the meantime, the lamps their only source of light, prolonging their shadows as they march towards the park.

“I'm assuming you have some sort of an idea of where we're going?” the King inquires, and Bilbo realizes he's taken the lead without a word.

“Yes, yes, I... Fili and me have a spot where we take our outside lessons,” he explains, “so I thought he might be there. Though we often walk through the whole park, so...”

He tries very hard not to groan at his own stupidity at the sight of Thorin's jaw clenched, his face a grimace of stern, obvious worry. They don't speak anymore as they delve into the greenery, the tall trees drowning the sounds of the Palace, enveloping them in an uneasy silence, interrupted every now and then by a shuffle or a crack, and a bird calling. They call out Fili's name regularly, to no avail, and Bilbo's heart breaks at the thought of the poor boy, probably furious, and confused, and hurting, all at once, trying to make things right by running away from them...

“I know where he is,” he exhales then, his step faltering, but he speeds up immediately.

“Where?” the King demands.

“The graveyard,” Bilbo sighs, and watches Thorin's eyes widen, “Your Majesty, I'm-”

“We should hurry,” Thorin utters curtly, and chooses a tempo that has Bilbo trotting at his side.

And all of this is really... well, quite something, Bilbo thinks as he steals glances at the King's face. For some reason, he concentrates on Thorin's suit, such a strange sight in the park, and wonders whether His Majesty ever actually comes here under normal circumstances...

They reach the cemetery quite quickly, the gate half ajar, creaking unnaturally loudly as they open it further. Bilbo hurries ahead, because somehow, he knows he needs to reach Fili first, and he has no doubt the boy is indeed there... He hears the muffled sobbing before he sees him, and almost trips over a branch or a rock or something as he runs towards the lone gravestone. The boy is there, crumpled on the ground, shaky, hiccuped sobs rattling his frail frame. Thorin stands by Bilbo's side, and he can't quite stop him from going to the boy, now can he?

“Kindly,” he mutters to the King, who merely nods, and then they step to the Prince together.

Bilbo sinks to his knees and squeezes his shoulder.

“Fili,” he says softly, “Fili, darling, it's alright...”

The boy fumbles to grab onto his arm, pulling himself closer to Bilbo, and exclaiming in pain.

“What is it? Did you hurt yourself?” Bilbo asks, soothing his shoulder and dreading the moment the boy notices his Uncle is also there.

“My... my ankle,” Fili stutters, “I ran, and I fell, and...”

“Alright, it's okay,” Bilbo mumbles, “just let me see, alright? Let me take a look.”

He helps the boy sit up properly, and can't miss the look in the King's eyes – almost frightened, it seems. But Fili says nothing, merely sniffs and clings closer to Bilbo.

“You're going to have to let me go,” Bilbo tells him gently, “I need to take a look at that ankle of yours, don't I?”

But the boy shakes his head and buries his head in Bilbo's arm, muttering words Bilbo can't understand, interrupted by soft choked sobs. To his surprise, the King kneels beside him then, wise enough not to touch him just yet, saying in the most tender tone Bilbo has ever heard from him: “ _A_ _khûnith_ , listen. Just listen to me, please. _Birashagimi,_ _ghivashuh..._ ”

And he speaks to Fili for the longest time, in sweet, hushed words, and the boy never replies, but Bilbo feels him relaxing, his shoulders slumping, sobs receding to pained sighs – when the King does brave putting his hand on his shoulder, Fili tenses up for a fleeting second, but then, to Bilbo's immense surprise, pushes himself away from him, sitting up better and rubbing his eyes. Thorin repeats a gentle question Bilbo can't understand, and the Prince nods, albeit reluctantly, wringing his hands in his lap. The King smiles, asking another question, and Fili nods again – suddenly, Bilbo wishes he were miles away, so that the two might share this moment alone, but the King catches his gaze then, motioning with his head to the boy's ankle.

Fili whimpers slightly when Bilbo removes his shoe, but braves it all excellently otherwise.

“I think it's just sprained,” Bilbo smiles at him and he smiles back feebly, eyes large, cheeks glistening with tears.

“I'm sorry,” the boy mumbles, “can I go to bed now?”

Bilbo and the King chuckle in unison.

“I think that would be a very good idea, yes,” Bilbo decides, clambering to his feet.

Fili gets up with his help, but it soon becomes obvious that he won't be walking anywhere any time soon – Thorin outstretches his arms to him, and for a tense second, it looks like the Prince is going to turn away, but then he exhales deeply, shakily, and lets himself be hoisted up, wrapping his arms around the King's shoulders, his eyes closing almost immediately. Bilbo can't help but smile at the sight, relief blossoming in his heart, and even though the view of His Majesty's face is obstructed by the messy halo of Fili's curls, Bilbo is sure he'd see a similar relief in his face as well.

“Professor, my left pocket, please,” the King says quietly, “my phone. Press one, it will connect you directly to Dwalin – tell him to get the doctor.”

“...Can I get a _mimalb,_ please?” Fili mumbles drowsily, sounding years younger, and at Bilbo's confused frown, Thorin explains softly, “it means 'lollipop'. They would get one each from Oin, the doctor, when they were little.”

“...I see,” Bilbo chuckles incredulously – nothing can surprise him anymore.

 

This is _definitely_ the strangest, most eventful day he's had in his life, he decides as the King and him march back to the Palace side by side, Fili asleep in his Uncle's arms, and Bilbo has to assure Dwalin that yes, everything is alright, and no, he doesn't need to send in the commando. He watches the King lay his nephew down on a sofa in the Main Hall, the infinite tenderness evening out his features, and he watches him still when the old doctor comes in and bandages the boy's ankle, prescribing nothing more severe than lots of ice, applied in abundance. Probably roused by all the commotion, Kili appears on the stairs then, and Thorin shoots Bilbo a short, grateful look when he hurries to the boy, leading him back to his room and telling him the whole story, albeit with a couple of alterations.

They don't even have to wait that long, and Fili comes back as well, limping with the help of a pair of crutches he got from god knows where, looking, if anything, somewhat proud. He lies down without much ado, and Bilbo piles the ice that a maid brought to him around his ankle, as Kili looks on with genuine interest, asking his brother if it hurts, over and over again. They stay like that, Bilbo on the ground by Fili's bedside, Kili curled up in his lap, as he reads them some more of Tom Sawyer. They both chuckle when he tells them that _this –_ with a pointed look towards Fili's ankle – is how it ends when real-life boys try to take after Tom, but they grow utterly silent very quickly, and are both asleep after the first couple of pages. And only when he gets up with Kili in his arms does Bilbo notice the King standing in the door, watching them with a look so tender it makes Bilbo's heart skip a beat.

Wordlessly, he tucks Kili in, and braves actually smiling at Thorin, who reciprocates it somewhat wearily.

“I wanted to thank you, Professor,” he mumbles after Bilbo closes the door behind himself quietly, and they stand in the dark hallway, the Palace around them once again utterly silent.

“Thank me?” Bilbo chuckles incredulously, and at the King's frown, he adds, “it's just... well, I'd be much less surprised if you fired me right here, right now.”

His Majesty shakes his head, the smile never leaving his lips, and, well, that's an achievement on its own, Bilbo thinks – even though he's not so sure what exactly he did to deserve it.

“For some reason,” Thorin tells him, his eyes gleaming, “you possess the ability to make me change my mind very quickly.”

And Bilbo wants to reply immediately, he really does, but somehow, words get lodged in his throat, and for a fleeting second, he feels himself losing solid ground below his feet, because... No, he decides, he's sure as hell not going to explore this, whatever it is, right now. His head is beginning to throb from all the new information he's learned today, and all the excitement, and out of the blue, laughter bubbles in his throat, because he remembers that only a couple of hours ago, he was sat on a park bench, slurping on a chocolate milkshake and watching the boys play. And somehow, that image is so ridiculous to him right now – it really does take mere hours for his world to be turned upside down here, and, well, that's the definition of an adventure, isn't it?

The King is still gazing at him, the strangest, softest look in his eyes, and Bilbo simply sighs deeply, and smiles, stating: “Are we so sure that's a good thing?”

And he really can't help but think ' _mission accomplished_ ' when His Majesty's eyebrows arch up, and he chuckles.

“We'll find out sooner or later,” he remarks, and before Bilbo can react to the twinkle in his eye with anything else than a blank stare, the King says, “Good night, Professor!”, and strides away, and it takes Bilbo a while, but he bursts into laughter when he realizes his mouth is hanging agape.

He keeps giggling to himself for some reason as he makes his way to the cafeteria, and laughs again when he sees the faces of his friends there, ranging from very concerned to genuinely worried.

“What happened?” Bofur demands to know, “what did you _do?_ ”

Bilbo realizes it fully then, that he's utterly knackered, and so he just pats Bofur's shoulder and slumps on the nearest available chair, rubbing his eyes, but still unable to let the smile go.

“I'll tell you everything, I swear,” he groans, his smile only broadening when he exchanges a look with Balin, arms crossed over his chest, shrugging, and realizes he's actually stupidly, helplessly giddy, “but please, I _really_ need a drink.”

 

And he was right – the next day, the only thing suggesting that Friday wasn't just an unbelievably silly dream, is Fili's sprained ankle, which he complains about almost endlessly, before he realizes that it means he can spend more time alone, just lounging in his room. Bilbo leaves him to it – he's just glad the boy seems largely unaffected by yesterday's events. He has yet to ask him what it was that his Uncle said to him that calmed him down so miraculously. Bilbo was pondering on asking the King himself, but he leaves very early in the morning, and this time it seems like he's really not coming back any earlier than expected, which is sometime on Sunday.

As a result, Bilbo has a lot of time to think, which proves... boring. He's bored. It's such an unusual feeling, yet he relishes it, realizing he's barely stopped and just breathed ever since he arrived. He's dying to find out how the King and his nephews will act around each other – they might have made the first minor step towards some sort of recovery, but it will take much more time, and effort on all sides involved. And whether Bilbo likes it or not, he has become one of those sides.

But for now, he has hours and hours of free time on his hands, and so he decides to spend it the one surefire way he knows – by reading. Balin forwards to him a number of articles about the coup ten years ago, and Bilbo starts from there and works his way through interview upon interview with the King himself, which prove much less disturbing than the account of all the deceased during the Azanulbizar revolution, of course. He notices that His Majesty very carefully avoids the topic of his family – there are official announcements, of course, like the memorial service for his sister and her husband, where he declares almost menacingly that he will do his absolute best to keep the little boys out of the media, or the interview for what Bilbo understands is the Ereborean equivalent of The Economist, where he talks about what his father taught him, but other than that... It just seems that every journalist in the country knows what _not_ to ask him, and Bilbo gets the sense that His Majesty would just refuse to answer even if they did.

He admires it, this secrecy, because despite it, the country seems to love the Crown – the preparations for the 10-year Peace celebrations are in full swing, and it seems that it will certainly be the event of the decade. The week-long festivities are set to take place directly before the elections in September, and Bilbo catches himself thinking about which of the theater plays and markets he's going to take the boys to, without even realizing that it's still a couple of months away, and that that's more than enough time to do something incredibly stupid again and get fired for real this time.

But alas, he's enjoying himself in Erebor too much, he decides. _It's been, what, three bloody weeks?_ a nagging little voice reminds him, but he pays it no mind – it's been _the_ best three weeks of his life. Riding on this inexplicable high, he gets a Khuzdul textbook from the library, the autodidactic kind, and buries himself in unfamiliar grammar and syntax and morphology for the first time since his student years. He feels truly wonderful, listening to the audio lessons Balin gets him the second he notices his effort, repeating the strange words out loud and finding out that his knack for accents has remained with him through the ages.

Somehow, he persuades the Princes to go have a sort of picnic with him on Sunday afternoon, the maids helping them prepare a nice spot in the more secluded part of the gardens near the boys' old playground and the beautiful ruins of the old theater. The sun is shining, and the cherry trees lining the broad paths are beginning to bloom in full, and Kili and Bilbo kick the ball around lazily as Fili lounges on a blanket, his foot propped up and laden with ice even though the swelling is almost gone, and quizzes Bilbo on the simplest Khuzdul phrases, attempting to lead a simple conversation with him.

Bilbo then proceeds to read them more of Tom Sawyer, the secret culprit of all the excitement that's been going on, and they sip on pink lemonade and listen very carefully, Kili fiddling with the straps on his shoe and Fili systematically trimming the tips of the fresh young grass with his fingernails. The younger Prince soon remembers, with unadulterated horror, that he's forgotten to do his homework for tomorrow, and Bilbo lets him go fetch it and bring it here to do it in the fresh air, rather than later on in his room minutes before bed as usual, and Fili sighs as he watches his brother run away, and mumbles: “He said I could go to school if I really wanted.”

“Who did?” Bilbo asks.

“Thorin. Back there, in the night.”

“Oh.”

Bilbo scrutinizes the boy's face, but he seems preoccupied with the growing pile of torn grass on his side of the blanket.

“Well, that's wonderful!” Bilbo concedes at last, “I'm sure we can find a good school soon enough.”

“But the year is ending, right?” Fili mutters, “only three more months?”

“Hmm, yes, but... you're smart!” Bilbo says at last, and the boy looks at him at last, a bit confused, so he smiles encouragingly, “I'm sure if we can persuade a school to give you some sort of entrance tests, they will see just how much you know, and they'll be happy to have you, even with just three months to go!”

“...Really?”

“Oh, definitely!”

“I don't know,” Fili sighs, turning back to his little gardening project.

“Why not?” Bilbo prods, “you're extremely smart!”

“No, yeah, I know that,” the boy says, and can't help the grin when Bilbo pfft's jokingly, “it's just that... well, you're my teacher, right?”

“...Right?” Bilbo nods, still not entirely sure where this is heading.

“So if I go to school,” Fili gestures, grass flying in wide arches, “will you have to go back home?”

Oh. ...Oh wow. Bilbo didn't even think about that once, and the boy has actually been _worrying_ about it?

“I'm, erm... I'm sure we'll figure something out,” he stammers.

“Yeah, but...”

“ _Indâd,_ look, there they are!”

 

They both turn to see who's interrupted them, and to Bilbo's great surprise, it's Kili, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder, tugging at the King's sleeve, leading him towards them.

“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” Bilbo says, doing his very best to conceal his sudden nervousness, “we were just having a little outing.”

“I can see that,” Thorin nods calmly, “Fili, how's your ankle?”

“It's... fine,” the boy replies uncertainly.

Kili interrupts what would certainly be a moment of awkward tension before it can start, by dumping his schoolbag in Bilbo's lap unceremoniously, causing him to _oof_ in surprise.

“I need to do my homework now!” he announces.

“I thought it would be a good change of pace for him if he took it outside, I hope you don't mind...” Bilbo stutters, and the King regards him with a raised eyebrow.

“You and your _change of pace,_ ” he says then, and Bilbo blushes, finding himself incapable of coming up with a witty response – did the King just...?

“Anyway,” Thorin states firmly, “can I help you with anything, Kili?”

“Hold this,” the boy says resolutely, pushing a pile of notebooks into the King's arms without much ado, continuing to rummage through his backpack with so much concentration in his little face, and paying no mind to his Uncle's incredulous chuckle, that Bilbo can't help but laugh.

“...I told Bilbo about how you said I could go to school again,” Fili says then, entirely unexpectedly, and Thorin's features freeze for a fleeting second.

“Did you now?” he muses, then gazes at Bilbo, “and what did you think of that, if I may ask, Professor?”

“I thought it was an absolutely brilliant idea!” Bilbo nods, readjusting on the blanket absentmindedly so that Kili has enough room to spread his Maths notebook, “Fili was worried that no school would have him this late into the year, but I was just telling him that if he took some entrance tests, any institution would be happy to have him.”

“Hmm, to be fair, I did think he'd go to school _after_ the summer holidays,” Thorin offers, kneeling beside Kili's schoolbag and attempting to pile his notebooks back inside more or less neatly.

“But that's, what, six more months?” Bilbo says quickly when he notices Fili's face falling, “that's too long! I'm sure we can find a new school in no time, I'll ask Balin for help... Or I'll manage alone...”

“Ugh, be quiet!” Kili exclaims then, a very seriously indignant grimace on his face, “I need to do my _homework!_ ”

This time, even the King laughs shortly.

“Forgive us, we'll stop now,” he says, but to everyone's surprise, Kili jumps to his feet, grabbing his notebook and pencil case, and declaring firmly: “I'm going over there. You talk.”, and marching purposefully towards the veranda, spreading his homework out on the flat stones, waving his hand with genuine irritation when he sees they're still watching him with amusement.

“Talk!” he orders them, and even Fili laughs at that, but his face grows serious in the next second, and he utters a quick sentence in Khuzdul to Thorin – the King and Bilbo both seem to be equally taken aback by it, though obviously for different reasons. It's probably the first time he's heard Fili speak in his native language to his Uncle, Bilbo thinks – it carries a sense of urgency, and importance, and Bilbo isn't too sure he should want to know, but he asks nevertheless: “What was that?”

“I asked if he had to fire you if I went to school,” Fili offers quietly, averting his gaze, almost ashamed, and for his part, Bilbo is almost too worried to look at His Majesty himself.

“...The answer is no,” Thorin says at last, and Bilbo's gaze snaps to him in genuine amazement, “I don't think Professor Baggins is going anywhere.”

And... alright,Bilbo thinks as he gapes at the King with what might be a much-too-obvious wonder, some decisions may be too brash, and stupid, and barely redeemable, but damn it if he's not going to take the risk every single time. The prize, he realizes, concentrating a bit too intently on the faint smile curving the King's lips, is _so_ worth it.

* * *

**Dictionary:**

_Akhûnith_ \- Little one

_Birashagimi_ \- Forgive me

_Ghivashuh_ \- My treasure

_Mimalb_ \- Lollipop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. I'm still less than sure about this chapter, I hope it wasn't too packed and that the pacing was good. Tell me what you think! :')


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo has never been a fan of politics, to be completely honest. He's always kept up with it, of course, but for the most part, the web of half-truths and gloriously vague statements has only ever managed to exhaust him. Which is why he's not particularly thrilled when he just wants to have a nice little chat on Monday evening, but finds everybody in the cafeteria gathered around the TV, waiting for the King's debate with that awful politician to begin.

“I suppose it'll be in Khuzdul, then?” he mutters to Bofur, who secures them two armchairs with a decent view, as well as two cans of beer.

“Oh, yes... yes it is, I'm afraid,” the chauffeur says almost apologetically, “I'll, uh, do my best to translate the important parts for you.”

Bilbo is about to thank him, if a bit unenthusiastically, but Bombur and his wife enter the room then, large trays laden with all sorts of snacks in their arms, and it soon becomes obvious that this thing will be more like watching a sports match, than anything else. Not that Bilbo's complaining, oh no – he munches on fresh potato chips with that strange seasoning that's Mirjam's specialty, and listens to Bofur explaining the basics to him.

“Karkâl is extremely anti-monarchistic,” the chauffeur gestures with his chicken wing while the TV blares a string of adverts, “but that's like his most redeemable quality, to be honest. His family have a monopoly on all the mining going on in this country – all the iron, all the mithril, that's them. See, he's a businessman, and a brutal one at that, and as far as I'm concerned, people like that should stay as far away from politics as possible. Those two shouldn't mix.”

“A utopia, really,” Bilbo mumbles.

“...Probably. But anyway, Azog's father was a big public figure during the revolution. He was the most vocal one when it came to insulting the Crown,” Bofur leans in, “rumor has it he had something to do with the assassination attempt at the old King, but...-”

“But that's all that is, a rumor,” Bombur interrupts his brother, setting down a bowl of fried vegetables on the table in front of them, grabbing a chair to sit with them, “nothing was ever proven. The Karkâls are ruthless, and Azog has come out of nowhere with this idea to go into politics, but I don't think they're-”

“Kingslayers?” Bilbo offers, and Bombur nods, while his brother pfft's.

“I wouldn't put it past them,” Bofur declares, “did you know, the mine Princess Dís and her husband died in was supposed to be the first one to rival the Karkâl family's efforts? Convenient, don't you think?”

“An _accident,_ ” Bombur scoffs, “you're forgetting the Karkâls offered work to all the miners that lost their job there.”

“Oh yes, how very noble of them! _You're_ forgetting what Bifur told us – you see, Bilbo, Bifur, our cousin, was supposed to work at the new mine, and...-”

“ _Takât_ _!_ ” Bombur hisses then, “look, it's starting!”

The room goes quiet very quickly, and someone turns the volume of the TV up – the tune that prefaces the discussion is rather epic, sort of like a royal march, and it is accompanied by footage of the Palace at night, illuminated and perfect like a precious gem, while the reporter chats away. Then the royal coat of arms floats on the screen very majestically, and the studio finally appears, the two participants in luxurious armchairs opposite each other, the reporter in between them. Everything is decked in royal blues and silvers, the country's flag with the black eagle in the background, and all in all, it's a rather splendid sight, Bilbo decides.

The King and his opponent couldn't be more different – Azog looks menacing, like a smart-dressed pit bull, with his bald head and narrow eyes, muscles heaving under a dove gray suit. Even though he's sitting perfectly still, he has the air of someone who's ready to jump at any given second, and he reminds Bilbo of some sort of a boxer, tightly wound and most efficient in a fist fight. His Majesty, on the other hand, is a picture of perfect calm, looking very relaxed in his dark pinstripe suit, legs crossed and his hands clasped together, resting on his knee. His features are flawlessly level and unreadable, his gaze not particularly scorching, but certainly unwavering as he measures his opponent wordlessly.

They nod at each other and thank the reporter for welcoming them, and the questions begin – calm and simple at first, pertaining to their particular goals. The reporter focuses greatly on Karkâl's political party, called something along the lines of _New Dawn for Democracy,_ at least according to Bofur's translation – she demands to know its program and visions, and even though Bilbo can barely understand a word, even he can see that Azog is a big talker, almost unstoppable once he starts chattering, but he accompanies it by large, overly jovial gestures, and a lot of unnecessary laughter, suggesting that his words have a rather generic basis.

The King speaks calmly – very regally and with an air of sophistication – but it soon becomes clear that his opponent simply feels the need to contradict every single thing he says, interrupting him quite rudely and trying his best to engage him, rile him up.

“O ho ho,” Bofur chuckles incredulously, “Azog just said he thinks the Senate could benefit from being run like a proper company. And His Majesty... hold on...”

The room fills with laughter.

“Yeah, His Majesty smacked him down, very elegantly at that – 'where is the fun in applying the rules of business to politics? Anyone can run a company these days, whereas in politics' – oh... wait... oh, _k_ _atakhigerun_ _._ ”

“What is it?” Bilbo asks.

“He's bringing up the issue of the small businessman again,” Bombur supplies.

“The number one of anti-monarchistic weapons,” Bofur adds, “the Crown doesn't care for the small businessman because the small businessman doesn't contribute enough.”

“But that's utter nonsense,” Bilbo says.

“Of course it is,” Bofur nods, “look, His Majesty is already putting on his divine patience face. He's going to spend the next twenty minutes just repeating age-old arguments and Karkâl will keep disagreeing because – _whoa!_ ”

“What? What did he say?”

“Hold on,” Bofur waves him off, leaning forward in his armchair, eyes glued to the screen, just like everyone else in the room.

Bilbo sees that the King stiffens up somewhat, his face freezing in that menacing grimace of slowly boiling anger. The politician finishes his statement, and the reporter looks nervously from him to His Majesty.

“Azog just literally said this country _belongs_ to him,” Bofur explains quickly, “it's a... a language thing, but he put it _very_ rudely...”

“Why?' Bilbo wants to know more, but Bofur merely waves him off, because the King starts speaking again, sternly and icily, never abandoning his regally calm posture, his look now of the piercing kind Bilbo has been on the unfortunate receiving end of a couple of times himself... And the politician interrupts him, harshly and out of the blue, big gesture with his arm, laughing and speaking loudly, and a number of people in the cafeteria hiss, others exclaim in indignation – clearly that was horribly offensive. Bilbo can see it in the King's eyes as well, widening in shock, then narrowing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Azog talks and talks, and the reporter in the middle seems a bit lost.

“He's saying that it's time for a change, blah blah,” Bofur translates for Bilbo, “and... oh, _you didn't._ Apparently the Crown supports many obsolete policies.”

“He's forgetting the Crown supports him as well,” Bombur adds curtly.

“Oh, yeah. ...Wow. You're joking. His reason for entering politics is, apparently, to go and make sure _the people_ have an increasingly bigger say in things,” Bofur tells Bilbo, sounding genuinely distressed, “this is horrible... This guy...”

“Well, obviously _the people_ must see that he's talking nonsense, right?” Bilbo offers.

“Oh, he has massive support,” Bombur sighs.

“Really?!”

“Yes, his companies employ over fifty thousand people altogether, you see. That's one eighth of the populace of this country, _plus_ their families.”

“...Huh,” Bilbo mutters.

The discussion unfolds quickly, and even though the King never resorts to being openly furious or even aggressive, Bilbo can see that he's working hard on containing himself, while his opponent merely piles more and more vague phrases on top of each other, and when he does graciously decide to listen to His Majesty for five minutes, he keeps smirking derisively and shaking his head solemnly as if he can't quite believe what the King is saying.

He's one of those figures that are very easy to hate at first sight, Bilbo concludes as the debate continues. He imagines that it's very easy for him to speak to the masses – he has that sort of redneck joviality about him that's very suitable for pre-election rallies in small towns and villages, where soup is served and country songs sang. But he lacks class, and it is obvious that the ruthlessness of running a large business is ingrained in his convictions – certainly not someone suitable for politics.

“Who are the pro-Crown candidates, then?” Bilbo asks towards the end, when the reporter is bringing the debate to a finish and everyone in the cafeteria begins discussing it at length.

“Oh, you'll meet them all at the Ball,” Bofur offers, “there's Dain, the current Prime Minister, and His Majesty's cousin... The Urs-tarâgs, the family which the Princess' husband was from...”

“Ah, glorious, yes, but... what Ball?” Bilbo inquires.

“Did nobody tell you?” Bombur laughs heartily.

“The _Hurmulkezer_ Gala, of course,' Bofur adds, “in three weeks. It's an annual event, to celebrate _A_ _bvônghiluzel_ _–_ the day the first King of Erebor was crowned, hundreds of years ago. Very grand. Black tie. I'm sure you'll receive an invitation soon enough, it's just that you appeared kind of out of nowhere!”

“How incredibly last-minute of me,” Bilbo chuckles, then sighs, “...a ball, wow. I don't think I've ever been to a ball before.”

“Oh, you'll enjoy it,” Bofur tells him, “that is, if you enjoy piano recitals and dancing with nobility.”

“...There's also lots of food, don't worry!” Bombur says at Bilbo's mildly horrified grimace.

“Oh, thank God, my saving grace.”

“Do you dance?” Bofur wants to know.

Bilbo laughs, catching one last glimpse of a particularly appealing close-up of the King's face on the telly, and sighs: “You know, I'm not even sure! I haven't danced in ages!”

“Dancing lessons are like a socially required thing for our teenagers,” Bofur offers.

“...Really?” Bilbo pfft's, “I can only imagine what the Princes will have to say about that.”

“I'm pretty sure both of them can already dance better than all of us combined,” Bombur laughs, “you'll see. Fili used to enjoy all these events a lot, before... you know.”

Bilbo hmph's. Right. Speaking of things Fili used to enjoy _before..._

 

Finding a school isn't much fun, but he manages. Both Balin and the King are convinced that Fili should have the best treatment, which Bilbo agrees with – but as far as he's concerned, it definitely doesn't involve an institution where they call all the rich kids 'sir', or an all-boys school. Fortunately, he manages to get his point across, partially because His Majesty is too busy not to trust him with the task. But trust it is, one way or the other, and that's what's important here.

The Prince himself is very excited, and he and Bilbo spend a nice afternoon researching all of the schools in the capital – it is Bilbo's job then to call each institution and inquire about accepting a student this late.

The real problem arises whenever he mentions Fili's royal status – some of the institutions are all of a sudden willing to accept him right the next day, the others become a bit worried, for some reason. Bilbo is determined to find a good school by the end of the week, none of those great pompous institutions where one enters in Elementary and doesn't leave until Secondary, either, and just as he's about to start getting a bit desperate, _Iraznanging_ _Inknak_ turns up.

Apparently, the name translates to Sunflower Secondary, which is charming enough on its own. But it's also rather small, and situated not too far from the center of the city, but still away from the general ruckus of it. There is a considerable tuition fee, but as far as Bilbo is concerned, that pays for the peace and quiet – from the moment the extremely nice receptionist answers his call, and not only listens to his rambling, but also assures him the Prince's studies will not be in any way influenced by his status, he knows they've found the one.

Highly nervous, Fili agrees to accompany him for a trip there, to check it out – they are greeted by the Principal herself, a charming young lady by the name of Fridda Smythe. Upon shaking her hand, Bilbo can't help but ask about her decidedly non-Ereborean surname, and they bond instantly when he learns that her father was a British diplomat in Erebor, and that she's spent half her life in London, and the other half here, where her mother comes from.

Fili seems to be thrilled for many other reasons, of course – though still a bit shy, he listens eagerly as Miss Smythe describes their teaching methods, and shows them the excellently and modernly equipped classrooms, the beautiful library, and even the garden with the glorious playground for all ages. The children there are gaping at them a bit warily, and Fili does the same, but the excitement is apparent in his eyes. He gets a bit worried then when Miss Smythe presents them with the tests the Prince would be required to pass if he were to enter the seventh grade – but they take one look at them, and it becomes obvious that none of them will be a problem, and Bilbo blooms with pride at the joy in Fili's eyes, even though it's not like he's contributed to his knowledge all that much.

“Can I take them right now?” The Prince asks eagerly, and the Principal raises her eyebrows, tipping her golden spectacles to measure him in surprise.

“Are you sure, Your Highness?” she replies, “we will let you take a couple of days to prepare, you know.”

“No, I... Bilbo, look, we talked about this last time, remember? I can do this! Please?”

Bilbo smiles.

“Well, if you really think so, then I don't see why not,” he shrugs, “if that's alright with you, of course, Principal.”

“Of course!” she chuckles, “I just don't think I've ever seen anyone so eager to get _into_ a school before. ...We can arrange for an empty classroom where you will have plenty of time, Your Highness.”

“Call me Fili, please,” the boy replies so formally that Bilbo can't help but chuckle, and the Principal grins.

“As you wish, then.”

Bilbo smiles and checks his watch absentmindedly, but then he remembers.

“Shoot,” he exclaims, “we need to pick up your brother in an hour, Fili! I'm afraid this will have to wait for tomorrow, or some other day.”

“Oh, no, don't worry about it,” the Principal hurries to say, “I'm sure His Highness – _Fili_ can wait here while you go pick up his brother, right? He'll have plenty of time to finish everything.”

Fili nods excitedly, but Bilbo frowns.

“...Are you sure? We wouldn't want to burden you.”

“Oh, please!” she waves him of cheerfully, “it's no bother at all, really! Come, let me show you to the classroom! It will be my pleasure!”

Bilbo can't quite believe his luck, and he thanks her over and over again, until she cuts him off, happily but firmly. Fili seems just pumped to go and take every single test in existence, and Bilbo makes an attempt to calm him down at least a little bit.

“You can do this,” he tells him when the Principal scurries off to get the necessary documents, “but don't get carried away. Read every question carefully before answering. Think everything through, you have plenty of time. Don't-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Fili interrupts him eagerly and impatiently, then smiles brightly, “it'll be fine, I know it. ...I just really want to go to school here, you know?”

A little touched at his honesty, Bilbo smiles back, patting his shoulder.

“I know,” he says softly, “and I'm sure you can get in no problem.”

The Principal takes him back to her office and offers him coffee as Fili delves into the first test, and Bilbo accepts it gladly, chuckling when he sees that the mug has the British flag on it.

“Nice touch, eh?” the Principal grins, “so, what brings you to Erebor, if I may ask?”

“Chance, mostly,” Bilbo replies honestly, “this job really did appear utterly out of the blue.”

“It's a good thing you're here,” she offers somewhat vaguely, “it's high time the boy got back out there.”

“I, erm... thank you, I suppose?” Bilbo stammers.

“It was a whole big thing in the papers two years ago, you see,” Miss Smythe explains, “the King did his absolute best to protect the boys from all the chaos, but still... Everybody's been wondering... I for one thought it was a bit cruel, to keep the boy confined to the Palace grounds for so long. ...Oh, excuse me,” she blurts out, blushing as Bilbo gapes at her a bit incredulously, “it's not my place. I get too chatty, it's my biggest problem. ...We're glad to have him, and I'm sure he'll do tremendously.”

“It's fine,” Bilbo smiles, sipping on his coffee, “home-schooling really wasn't the way to go for him, you're right. Thank you again for being so gracious with us. Not to underestimate your methods, but I'm sure he'll ace the tests – he's too smart for his own good.”

“I can tell,” the Principal smiles, “His Majesty must be very proud.”

Bilbo manages to choke on his coffee very discretely.

“...That he is, yes, I suppose.”

She giggles, measuring him with genuine interest, poised in her large armchair, and somehow, she gains Bilbo's sympathies instantly – with her entirely-too-massive glasses, a bright messy mane of red hair and carefully preppy clothes, she reminds him of many of his colleagues back at Bree. In addition, she seems just endlessly bright and joyful, if a bit awkward, and all in all, if anyone is to look after Fili, Bilbo is glad it will be her.

They chat about their academical careers easily enough, sharing many a good laugh, and she explains to him some of the intricacies and differences of the Ereborean educational system while he complains about the slowly deteriorating state of Secondary schooling in Britain, and before long, it is time to go and pick up Kili.

Fili's test won't be over for another ten minutes, and so Bilbo leaves him to it, assured over and over by Miss Smythe that she will keep an eye on the boy, and leaves, the sight of the kids gathering in the front yard after their last lesson, loud and cheerful, some waiting for their parents, some hurrying away, simply adding to his contentment.

Kili is, of course, absolutely overjoyed when Bilbo tells him they're going to pick up Fili at his new school – the younger Prince seems to derive immense satisfaction from every single drive they take, every single trip, always talking, always asking questions, and Bilbo really can't complain about any of that. The boy possesses the ability to brighten even the dreariest days, and Bilbo merely promises himself to help him retain that skill for as long as possible.

 

With the school deserted, its students already at home, they find Fili in the playground, swaying on one of the climbing frames in his favorite life-threatening fashion, and Kili runs to join him immediately.

“So?” Bilbo asks, “how did you do?”

“Great!” Fili replies, currently hanging upside down, “you are supposed to go see the Principal in her office.”

“Alright,” Bilbo smiles, “don't fall! Keep an eye on Kili.”

“He did extraordinarily well,” the Principal tells him when he finds himself at her desk once again, “see for yourself. I'm really impressed, especially with the Maths. Not many children take the time to describe their steps so thoroughly.”

“Ah, yes, Thorin – His Majesty teaches him that,” Bilbo mutters as he flicks through the papers, more interested with how Fili did regarding literature, and pleased to see there are only very few unimportant mistakes.

“Thank you so much for having us,” he tells Miss Smythe earnestly, “can we...?”

“Oh, he can start tomorrow, as far as I'm concerned,” the Principal smiles, “his parent – well, anyone who's responsible for him by law, must sign the admission papers, and that's it!”

“And could I persuade you to give me those to give to the King?” Bilbo wonders, “it's just that I don't really see him coming down here himself, no offense.”

“Absolutely none taken,” she smiles, “and I shouldn't, but, well, since this is a somewhat special occasion...”

She hands him the file, and proceeds to rummage through various binders and folders, until she finds what she's looking for.

“This is a list of all the books the seventh-year students are required to have,” she explains, “it's not much, but still...”

“Excellent, thank you,” Bilbo nods, “I think we should like to take the weekend to get everything necessary and I'll bring Fili in on Monday, then!”

To everyone's immense excitement, they bid Sunflower Secondary School farewell, and though Bilbo suspects the boys might want to go home now, they persuade him to go get their favorite milkshakes again, and Bilbo doesn't even protest – he feels very accomplished.

“Your Uncle will be very proud,” he offers as they're waiting for the sweet delights to finish, and Fili merely shrugs.

“Are you?”

“Oh, immensely!” Bilbo assures him, but still can't help but let the boy's indifference worry him for a bit – he's not half as icy towards the King as he was before the... accident, but doesn't seem particularly interested in him, either. Bilbo would be a fool to expect all their issues to be magically resolved by one sprained ankle, and he decides time is needed to mend everything. He just wonders if either side will be willing to give it – they barely see His Majesty these days, and Fili will be unusually busy himself, come the next week...

He tries to explain it to the boy, prepare him for the new responsibilities, but for the most part, Fili pays it no mind, simply excited to get out of the Palace on a daily basis, and Bilbo figures his eagerness should get him through the first couple of days nicely, until the inevitable annoyance kicks in. He's certainly not expecting the Prince to be some sort of always-ready dream student – he knows from experience that those are few in number, and even they get tired on a regular basis.

But for now, he's just happy to see Fili flick through his new books, which they spent a nice afternoon buying, and put them in his brand new school bag. For his part, Bilbo reworks his own daily schedule to fit both the boys' timetables, so that he has enough time to drop both off in the morning and pick them up again in the afternoon, and a mildly unpleasant nagging voice in his head keeps remarking about the fact that he will soon have a lot of free time on his hands. _Too much_ free time, to be perfectly honest, and... well, it brings up a number of questions. The King did say Bilbo could stay even though he would not be Fili's tutor anymore, but what is he supposed to do with all that time? And will that warrant more adjustments to his contract? Oh, that reminds him, he wanted to call Gandalf, and... either thank him or be vaguely acrid, he can't remember now. Either way, it seems like he's going to become a full-on governess now that both Princes have a school to go to...

Speaking of that, he still needs to meet the King and have him sign the admission papers – he's already gearing up for it to be a gargantuan task, but His Majesty requests a meeting himself on Friday night. Bilbo knows he's been working all week, so he approaches his office with care, perfectly ready for an unpleasant encounter. He enters to the sight of the King stretching his arms in his chair, and decides immediately and very resolutely _not_ to pay mind to the muscles heaving under yet another crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up, _or_ the ragged groan His Majesty indulges himself in before he notices Bilbo is in the room with him.

“Good evening, Professor,” Thorin sighs deeply, scratching his temple and leaning back in the chair.

“Ah, erm... good evening,” Bilbo replies, cursing himself inwardly for his lack of eloquence, and accepts the seat opposite the King.

“I understand the search for a school for Fili was a success?” the King asks.

“Yes, yes it was!” Bilbo nods, “Sunflower Secondary School, absolutely lovely. Fili did _so well_ on the tests – the Principal was kind enough to let him take them right away, and he just aced them.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” His Majesty says with a small smile, “thank you.”

“Oh, it's no... no trouble at all, I assure you,” Bilbo replies, if a bit uncertainly, slightly taken aback by the King's almost kind demeanor, “all we need is for you to sign the admission papers, and Fili can start on Monday.”

“Ah, of course,” Thorin mumbles, putting on his glasses and searching the piles of different documents on his desk, “I could swear Balin relayed those to me at some point today... Here we go. I'll give it a read, if you don't mind – I simply haven't been able to find the time.”

And he delves in, tapping his index finger on his lips absentmindedly as he supports his chin leisurely, and if Bilbo didn't know better, he could swear he's doing it on purpose – the sight is simply too good to pass up. Bilbo shuffles in his own chair, scolding himself for his momentarily slightly unsavory thoughts, which leads nowhere really, because a smile spreads over His Majesty's face then, light, if a bit weary, and he looks from the document at Bilbo.

“This is a wonderful choice,” he says, and again, there's this unprecedented niceness in his voice – perhaps Bilbo is just too used to him being always at least a little grumpy.

“I do believe Fili will be really happy there, yes,” he replies, offering a smile of his own, “the Principal is a wonderful lady, too. I'm positive Fili will be in very good hands.”

Thorin hums in approval and signs the document – Bilbo tucks it away safely into one of his leather binders, and doesn't miss the King pinching the bridge of his nose with a faint sigh.

“...Headaches?” he offers non-committaly.

“It's been a very long day,” His Majesty utters, “do forgive me. ...Thank you again for all of this. We will need to devise a new form for your daily reports to me at some point, but for now, consider them canceled until further notice.”

There it is again, the faint pinch of fearful uncertainty, but Bilbo pays it no mind.

“Right. ...Thank you. May I suggest-”

“Oh, I would've forgotten completely,” the King interrupts him, and searches for something in his desk drawers, handing Bilbo an envelope in a beautiful, dark shade of royal blue, simply gazing at him until he manages to fish out its contents.

The thick, luxurious paper is gold-rimmed, and reads, in large wavy letters, _The Crown invites you to the Hurmulkezer Gala,_ followed by time and date, ' _black tie required',_ and an inquiry about a plus one.

“Balin tells me your invitation was never delivered,” Thorin says matter-of-factly, “which is, well, understandable, since we've only had you for... how long?”

“A little over a month now,” Bilbo supplies, and the King merely raises an eyebrow, measuring him wordlessly for a moment, until at last, shaking his head in something almost akin to amusement, he states: “Indeed? Feels like a lifetime.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but is genuinely incapable of it, what with His Majesty actually smiling at him.

“Just make sure to let Balin know whether you'll be taking someone with you,” the King offers conversationally, “it's for the banquet.”

“Oh,” Bilbo actually blushes, “oh, I...”

“No need to decide now,” Thorin chuckles, and Bilbo titters nervously, but His Majesty's face contorts in another fleeting grimace of pain, and as he rubs his forehead, Bilbo blurts out: “You should drink more.”

“...Excuse me?” the King asks in amusement, getting up and walking past Bilbo to the other side of the room, opening a small liquor cabinet.

“I mean... I mean, concerning your headaches. Less of _that_ -” he points to the golden contents of the bottle Thorin is holding, “and more of... well, actual liquids. You see, my Mother used to say a good gulp of water is the first thing to chase away any headache and I...”

Bilbo's voice slowly dies off under His Majesty's piercing gaze, his head tilted and a small amused smile dancing on his lips, and he clears his throat, getting up.

“Right,” he sighs, “I'd better go now.”

“Yes,” the King's smile only broadens, “and thank you for your... health tips.”

“And thank _you_ for, erm....” Bilbo stammers, already preparing to bang his head against the nearest wall once he's out of there, “well, signing the papers, for one, and... I'm going.”

“Good night, Professor,” Thorin still regards him with that vague smirk as he hurries towards the door.

“Yes, I... good night.”

He closes the door very gingerly, and only ever groans when he's a couple of corners away.

“ _More actual liquids?_ ” he hisses, “oh, what is _wrong with me?_ ”

When exactly did he become so horrible at leading a simple conversation? he wonders that night before going to bed. Oh, and what business does His Majesty have being all... nice? But, well, if that's enough to make Bilbo lose all solid ground beneath his feet, maybe he should really reevaluate some things. After all, he thinks as he turns the beautiful invitation to the Gala over and over in his hands, it's been quite long enough since...

“And that's the end of that, I should think,” he mumbles to himself, once again allowing himself to think about matters that really should not be dwelt on for too long.

Still, he checks ' _going solo_ ' on the invitation with unusual vigor, and falls asleep that night thinking about where on earth he'll get an appropriate suit.

 

The following week catches him a bit unprepared, what with the sudden and immense increase in free time, but if there is anything Bilbo Baggins is good at, it's finding something to do. Boredom comes from a sleeping mind – another thing his mother would say, and he's quite sure his mind is everything but asleep. He spends his mornings in the library, delving fully into the study of the Khuzdul language, and takes extensive walks around the Palace premises listening to the audio lessons, even manages to write a couple of e-mails to his relatives, to assure them that he's not dead – anything to take his mind off the fact that he misses his lessons with Fili something fierce.

The boy is doing tremendously well, spends every drive home dutifully describing his day to Bilbo, and his afternoons doing his homework. Peeking over his shoulder, Bilbo wishes homework had been this fun and interactive when he was a child – 'describe in your own words' seems to be the prevalent factor in Fili's duties, and he does so with an unparallelled joy so far.

More pleasant surprises are on their way, it seems – when he casually mentions the Gala to Miss Smythe, not only does he learn that she's coming as well (“Oh, yes, my Grandmother is a Duchess, did I not say?”), but also gains a very excited guide for suit-shopping. They spend a rather lovely afternoon in the city, and if Bilbo is still a bit taken aback at her endlessly easygoing nature, all his doubts dissolve very quickly – Fridda is a lovely companion, barely ever pausing for breath amidst her chattering, and on top of finally meeting someone who can show him all the important parts of the city, he feels like he's truly discovered a kindred soul.

“No, no, no, you are _not_ wearing a store-bought suit for the Gala,” she waggles her finger at him as she leads him through the historical part of the city, “Dori Haban'sfamily have been making suits for my family for decades – they're the best in Erebor. In fact, mentioning that you work in the Royal Palace _will_ definitely grant you a discount. I believe His Majesty himself has been a customer. Come on!”

“...Oh, alright,” Bilbo sighs in mild exasperation, letting her lead him into a beautiful two-story building in one of those wonderfully narrow alleys. There's no harm in indulging oneself in a good suit, now is there? His very first salary has only just arrived on his brand new Ereborean bank account, and he's still a bit dizzy, thinking about that outrageous amount of money – better to spend it all at once on something worthwhile, he decides.

The tailor's shop is very similar to those luxurious ones in London that Bilbo used to accompany Gandalf to every now and then – walls paneled with expensive wood, thick richly decorated carpets, leather sofas for the customers to lounge in, and dazzling crystal chandeliers bathing all that splendor in a golden light.

“ _Shamukh_ _!_ _K_ _ulhu abimênu_ _?_ ” a hostess appears seemingly out of nowhere, and Bilbo is amazed at himself – he understands every word of her welcome, more or less.

“ _Sha_ _mukh_ _,_ Tara!” Miss Smythe greets her, and the young woman's face brightens up.

“Fridda! Oh, welcome! What can I do for you?”

“This is Professor Baggins – he works at the _Hurmulkezer,_ and he's in dire need of a suit for the Gala, you see,” Fridda explains cheerfully, and the hostess seems positively delighted.

“Of course!” she smiles brightly, “it's such a pleasure, Professor!”

“All mine,” Bilbo replies, still a bit feebly, and expects her to shake his hand, but she takes a step back instead, measuring him with a professional eye.

“Well, I'm sure we can make just the right suit for the occasion, Professor Baggins!” she declares, “would you like to set an appointment?”

“Professor?”

Bilbo swivels at the sound of a familiar voice, and indeed, the King himself is walking towards them, slipping into his coat, a short, almost circular man by his side – it takes one look for Bilbo to discern that this must be Dori Haban himself.

“Y-Your Majesty!” Bilbo flushes, “I didn't expect to see you here...”

“Likewise,” Thorin smiles shortly, “getting a suit done, are you?”

“Oh, uhm, yes, hopefully,” Bilbo stammers, then notices Fridda gaping at the King almost reverently, and hastens to add, “Your Majesty, this is Miss Fridda Smythe, the Principal at Fili's new school!”

“A pleasure!” the King says uncharacteristically cheerfully, then chuckles, “no need to curtsy, Miss Smythe, this is not the 18th century anymore – a simple handshake will do.”

Blushing and smiling nervously, Fridda shakes his hand, wisely deciding to remain quiet, and Bilbo struggles not to giggle at her adorable awed grimace.

“And Professor Baggins,” Thorin says then, “this is Master Dori Haban, the owner of this humble abode, and my very good friend. I believe his little brother attends Miss Smythe's school as well, doesn't he?”

“Indeed,” the tailor nods, shaking Bilbo's hand firmly, “a pleasure to meet you, Professor. Very good shoulders you have there.”

“My... my shoulders?” Bilbo stammers, taken completely by surprise, and both Fridda and the King laugh, while Dori purses his lips, declaring seriously, albeit with an amused twinkle in his eye: “Complimenting body parts is how I conduct my business, Professor.”

“I suggest you accept the compliment and leave it at that,” His Majesty adds, actually winking at Bilbo, which only serves to add to his slightly giddy nervousness.

“Oh, no, yes, erm... thank you!” he stammers, and Dori nods curtly.

“You're very welcome. Now, I've only just finished with His Majesty – let's move on to you!” he states.

“Oh, but I couldn't,” Bilbo blabbers, “I'm perfectly happy with making an appointment for a later date, I wouldn't want to waste your time-”

“Nonsense!” Dori frowns, “you're wasting my time standing around in this hellish blazer. Tara, fetch someone to prepare the room, will you? Professor, wait here until we invite you in, please? Excellent. Wonderful seeing you again, Your Majesty. Yes, yes, alright, _I'm coming!_ ”

The man is unstoppable, shaking the King's hand firmly and hurrying away after someone calling for him, the strange white bun of his hair bobbing, his thumbs actually hooked in his suspenders – Bilbo sort of feels like he's stepped into some sort of a fairy tale.

“Miss Smythe,” the King declares then, and Bilbo almost forgot for a second that he's there, and standing so close by his side, “any affiliation to the Duchess of Khazad, by any chance?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, she's my grandmother,” Fridda replies.

“I see,” Thorin smiles than unusual, warm smile again, “then I expect we'll be seeing both of you at the Gala?”

“Yes!” Fridda agrees a bit breathlessly, “we're both looking forward to it very much!”

“As am I,” the King nods, shooting a vastly unreadable look to Bilbo, “I suspect enough time will have passed then for me to ask you about my nephew's progress in school.”

“Oh, he's more than brilliant already, Your Majesty,” Fridda says earnestly, “Bilbo did a good thing bringing him in.”

“Hmm,” Thorin concedes, gazing at Bilbo intently for a moment, then composing himself and stating: “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smythe. I must go now, work calls.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Your Majesty,” Fridda all but sighs dreamily, and side by side, Bilbo and her watch him walk away, long trench coat swishing as he leaves it unbuttoned, ducking his head as he exits through the glass door, the tiny brass doorbell tinkling faintly.

“...Wow,” Fridda sighs, readjusting her glasses, “he's quite... quite something, isn't he?”

Bilbo gapes at her as she smooths down her blouse, and when she catches his gaze, a panicked grimace flashes across her face, and she blushes.

“I mean, he's very... you know,” she waves her hand helplessly, “...tall.”

Bilbo can't help it, he bursts into laughter, and she grins.

“Yes,” he agrees, beginning to feel truly giddy, “very tall.”

 

They spend the next couple of hours in the almost ridiculous luxury of one of Dori's work rooms, the Master himself somehow managing to take Bilbo's measurements, scold his young assistant, and chat with Fridda, all at the same time. Bilbo learns a lot of very high-class gossip that day, and the two succeed at making him look forward to the Gala with an almost boyish excitement. He agrees to be Fridda's beard for the night, as she's not particularly keen on being courted by 'all those pompous buffoons', as she calls them, no doubt as a result of the numerous cups of spiced cocoa another one of Dori's assistants keeps bringing her.

The remaining days until the Gala fly by in a flash, really. Fridda introduces Bilbo to her circle of friends, most of them teachers or scholars from all over the world, and he's incredibly happy for it, spending a couple of lovely evenings in the city in this or that cozy cafe, effortlessly learning more about Erebor's culture and, inevitably, politics. They are wary around him at first, not really daring to comment on the Crown in any way, but it doesn't take him long to persuade them that he really doesn't mind.

“So you're saying His Majesty _does_ actually sleep?” Henri the Swiss philosophy professor, the latest in Fridda's long line of slightly exotic friends, asks him.

“Unbelievable, I know,” Bilbo grins into his _salep,_ ”but I swear it's true. I think I even saw him in a bathrobe once.”

“No!” Henri exclaims.

“Nothing _but_ the bathrobe?” Fridda prods with a grin, and they laugh when Bilbo manages to choke on the sweet milky drink in his bowl.

“Fortunately not,” he mumbles feebly.

“Should be quite the sight, I think,” Fridda giggles, “just imagine the broad shoulders and the...”

“ _Okay,_ ” Bilbo cuts her off resolutely, with a slightly manic laugh, “that's enough punch for you, I think. Can we go now?”

They're taking him to an outdoor opera, something that is apparently very common come the warmer months, and he can't wait, really. It takes place in the city's largest park, by the river, and Bilbo is absolutely enchanted, the excellent performance and even more excellent company both incredibly uplifting. He tries his very best to understand the words, sipping on the ubiquitous _hurusmazr_ _âl,_ the warm fruity drink, and his gaze slides over from the stage under the blooming trees up to where the Palace is looming over the city, its white marble seemingly glittering in the glow of the setting sun. He inhales deeply, the air much fresher than anything he could have wished for back in England, and he's suddenly a bit worried about the urgency with which he never wants to leave this place. Having made more friends in the past couple of weeks than he'd succeeded to in the past years in England, and having fallen... yes, fallen in love with his surroundings, and his little apartment in the Palace, and the Palace itself, and the two Princes... He's not sure he'll ever want to give it up. He's not sure why he should, or would ever be forced to, but his cynicism remains – it's a trait inherited from his father, and usually it keeps him grounded, but.. He's made more foolish and reckless decisions in his time here than ever before in his entire life, and yet somehow, none of them cost him his job. He doesn't believe in destiny, but his mother would say he's right where he belongs, and, well, he'd never dared disagree with his mother.

 

As the weather progresses to get even warmer, he spends his free time outside on the Palace premises, taking extensive walks and listening to the Khuzdul for Beginners Audio Lessons, receiving many a grin from the groundskeepers he meets, and it all really does feel a bit a bit fairytale-ish, what with all the trees in full bloom now, and birds singing...

A bit worried, he brings up the issue of his workload with Balin, who agrees to revisit his contract, and together they draft a couple of adjustments to both their satisfaction, the Chief of Staff assuring Bilbo that spending his mornings studying is more than acceptable, and he still has a lot of work to do otherwise, anyway. He now teaches Fili a sort of comprehensive Literature lesson twice a week, as per His Majesty's suggestion. It consists mostly of Fili reading out loud to Bilbo to perfect his pronunciation, and they are still allowed to take the lessons outside, which is a blessing, really.

Bilbo marvels at his need for fresh air, something he never really experienced in England, and he soon finds the perfect secluded spot for his studies, and browsing the Internet – the garden outside the boys' dining room, always utterly deserted. Well, up to a point, anyway.

He's lounging on his blanket in the grass, reading to himself out loud from a book, struggling with some words a little bit, when he looks up and notices the King approaching him leisurely. He searches his memory for anything he forgot to do, or could have done wrong, but he soon sees that His Majesty doesn't look particularly angry, or impatient. Still, Bilbo jumps to his feet, smoothing his trousers and straightening his glasses.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” he greets him a bit breathlessly.

“It's long past noon, Professor,” Thorin smiles.

“Is... is it?” Bilbo checks his watch – did he really just spend three hours outside? Who has he become?!

“Yes,” the King nods, “what are you reading?”

“Oh, this? The, uh... _A_ _rmug_ _G_ _imlîth_ _,_ I believe it is called. Forgive my pronunciation.”

“The children's book?” the King's eyebrows arch up.

“Yes! I will have you know it's an excellent means of getting a grasp on the language – it's difficult enough as it is,” Bilbo states, and His Majesty chuckles.

“Yes, I'm sure. ...Are you hungry?”

“Am I... hm?” Bilbo stammers.

“Hungry, Master Baggins. I'd hate to think you're skipping lunch for the sake of learning our _difficult_ language.”

Bilbo simply gapes at him, a bit at a loss, but... yes, alright, lunch. A simple enough notion, and it's true that he hasn't eaten in a while. His stomach responds appropriately the second he starts thinking about food.

“I think I would've completely forgotten,” he admits, “I need to go, Bombur so hates saving leftovers.”

“Or,” the King tilts his head, watching Bilbo with a strange sort of expectation, “you could just join me. The dining room over there, remember? It's a bit empty without the boys around, but...”

“Oh,” Bilbo mutters in slight disbelief, then regains his composure a little bit, “oh, well, why not! Yes, of course, I'd love to. But won't that be a problem for the staff, to...”

“Don't worry about it,” Thorin shakes his head, waving at the maid waiting on the veranda, and she nods and hurries inside.

Bilbo remembers his Etiquette lessons then and goes to sit at the head of the table opposite the King, but Thorin simply motions to the maid, and she resets their plates so that they sit right across the table from each other, and if Bilbo regards the whole process a bit nervously, his doubt dissolves at the King's deadpan remark: “A huge violation of protocol, in case you're wondering. I'm counting on you to keep this between us.”

'My lips are sealed, Your Majesty,” Bilbo chuckles, still a bit uneasy, expecting an argument to arise any second now, or at least a disagreement – he's not too good at handling the King at his best, it seems.

“I expect you must think me a bit ridiculous,” Thorin says then, “while my nephews were still around, I never seemed to have the time to share lunch with them, and here I am now.”

When Bilbo says nothing, merely gazes at him, the King adds quietly: “An opportunity I'm not too happy wasting, I assure you.”

“You say that as if you'll never share a meal with the boys ever again,” Bilbo supplies with a faint smile, “one opportunity wasted doesn't mean another one won't arise.”

“Well, the chance to lunch with you is certainly a welcome one,” the King nods, and Bilbo is not entirely sure it was meant to make him blush the way it does.

 

And honestly, the surprises never end. The lunch is pleasant enough, the King asking him about Fili's progress, which Bilbo is happy to describe, and all in all, it feels very informal. They get to talking about literature, Bilbo expressing his joy at the Princes' love for Tom Sawyer, which they finished earlier that week, moving on smoothly to Huckleberry Finn, and the King in turn introduces him to a couple of Khuzdul young adult novels, similar to Mark Twain's work, urging him to give them a read.

Bilbo also suggests that the King help Fili with his maths homework, which is certainly not Bilbo's forte, and His Majesty solemnly promises to try and find some time. It doesn't take more than twenty minutes altogether, as Thorin must hurry away to a meeting, but if Bilbo wasn't invigorated enough before, he certainly is now, admitting to himself that this time, His Majesty's company was really pleasant.

He finds himself thinking about it all the way to both the boys' schools, and all the way back home, and all the way to the tailor's shop to pick up his new suit... He stands before his wardrobe that night, admiring the astoundingly smart new addition to it, and thinks, well, perhaps he should finally stop questioning his life being on such an excellent course. The Gala is in a couple of days, he's managed to to pass the exams of the first part of the Khuzdul Audio Lessons today _and_ have a simple conversation with Bombur's Mirjam, and all in all, he tells himself, he has nothing to worry about, and everything to look forward to.

* * *

**Dictionary:**

_Abvônghiluzel_ \- Crowning Day

_Armug Gimlîth_ \- Four Little Stars

_Iraznanging Inknak_ \- Sunflower Secondary

_Kulhu abimênu?_ \- What can I do for you?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a strange one - I swear it was actually supposed to be about the Gala, but things got a bit out of hand, Fridda happened, and... here we are. Hope you guys enjoyed it - you've been so very wonderful so far! I promise ~stuff will start happening soon :'D


	7. Chapter 7

To say that Bilbo is fond of black-tie events would be a vast understatement of his ability to get incredibly tipsy at said events, and either spend the majority of them lounging in the first available armchair, chatting up the best possible company he manages to stumble upon, or dancing shamelessly when the music and occasion arise.

That said, Bilbo has, of course, never been to anything of even remotely the same magnitude as the Royal Gala, and also, perhaps most importantly, he has never before been obliged to look after two young Princes. Fili and Kili are at their best this evening, which means they are currently beaming side by side, all but dangling off the marble railing, a rather adorable sight in their matching suits, waiting for their Uncle to show up and the Gala to start. But it also means that they are all but unstoppable, and already cannot wait to delve into the crowd, and dance, eat, and generally just cause chaos. And Bilbo is supposed to moderate all that, of course, for the next couple of hours until the boys are ushered to bed.

But he's not complaining. He is, in fact, absolutely thrilled, and can't get enough of his surroundings. The whole Common Wing of the Palace is hosting the Gala tonight, and it started filling with people hours ago, and hasn't stopped yet. The main ballroom is where everyone is asked to gather now, but the company of hundreds is scattered all over the place – there are only very few rooms off limits tonight, every door wide open, including the long line of tall windows leading to the vast veranda, and the decorations... oh, the decorations. Bilbo has never seen so much light in his life.

Dozens of chandeliers have been lit, including the massive one currently over their heads – Bilbo was there when they lowered it, and it is taller than any man, laden with crystal beads and hundreds of electric candles, and the sight of it swaying ever so slightly high up above their heads now steals Bilbo's breath away. The walls are, of course, decked in royal blues and silvers, with a large flag on the wall behind the large balcony they are currently standing on, the black eagle spreading her wings and reminding everyone that no matter how hard they try, they will probably fail at being the most majestic thing in the room tonight.

Bilbo promises himself to tour the other rooms after he's put the boys to bed tonight, because he thinks he saw tables upon tables being laden with food in the halls on the far side of the Wing, and he just wonders how quickly he'll be able to make his way there... But right now, he's preoccupied with the sight of the crowd amassing below the broad staircase, the ladies radiant in their dresses, many of the men sporting high-ranking army uniforms rather than suits. Everybody looks absolutely stunning, only very few people have dared a funny hat or hairdo, and all in all, the splendor of it all is beginning to make Bilbo positively lightheaded.

The air buzzes with anticipation, and the Royal Orchestra is getting ready on the far side of the ballroom, the musicians taking their seats by their instruments, and then the conductor enters, a lean, stick-thin man taking his place on his stand, and Bilbo forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Look,” he beckons the boys, but they're already staring as well, and the man waits for his ensemble to calm down, exchanging a couple of nods with them, and none of them seem to be fazed in the slightest by the majority of the crowd still being utterly oblivious to them.

And then Bilbo understands why – the conductor raises his wand, the orchestra unanimously takes a breath, and one long, drawn accord silences the vast room immediately, Bilbo's chest swelling so much he can't even giggle at the sight of Kili's mouth hanging open. The crowd applauds and the conductor takes a curt bow, raising his arms, his every movement carefully calculated to hold everyone's attention. He turns back to his orchestra, and even this far off, Bilbo can see he closes his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, and then he motions with his whole upper body, leaning towards the musicians, and the music rises again. Bilbo recognizes the national anthem immediately, and he's sure he's not the only one to indulge himself in an awed sigh – it sounds absolutely glorious, and he almost forgets he has actual duties, because he's so entranced by the sight of the orchestra coming to life as one.

But he notices Fili eying him meaningfully, motioning with his head to the stairwell behind them, and Bilbo swivels, and his breath hitches in his throat, not for the first time that evening, and certainly not the last. His Majesty is descending the stairs to the balcony, wearing a rich, royal blue uniform with golden braids and buttons, a number of colorful decorations and medals over his heart and a wide red and white sash across his broad chest, all of that in sharp, breathtaking contrast with the deep red carpet he's walking on. Bilbo remembers his place, and hurries away from the spotlight, standing far to the side with Balin, the Princes waiting on the very edge of the balcony for their Uncle to join them.

Thorin casts a small sideways glance to Bilbo as he's passing, granting him an almost imperceptible smile and a nod, all within the span of a second, and then Bilbo watches his back as he stands on the balcony, his nephews assuming their places by his side. The anthem comes to its epic, rolling finale, and already the crowd is offering another roaring applause to the orchestra – the conductor takes another bow, motioning to the musicians, the clapping continuing without fail, and they rise from their seats, bowing as well. Eager, the crowd turns as one to His Majesty, and the whole vast room grows silent.

“ _Shamukh ra alanjuz ghelekh_ _,_ _inhun ra uzbadun_ _,_ ” Thorin speaks clearly, loudly, “welcome to the _Hurmulkezer_ Gala.”

He proceeds to greet everyone in Khuzdul, of course, and Bilbo is hopelessly entranced by everything, the beautiful dresses, the shimmering lamp lights in garlands stretching across the span of the ballroom, the round tables lining the sides, the King and the Princes with his backs to him, enveloped more than anyone in the golden glow of the large chandelier... He's in love. Oh, he's in love.

The King finishes his speech, to yet another round of applause, and the orchestra begins a simple, quiet tune filled with anticipation and accompanied by a drumroll, and the host of the evening, a short, round man high above the crowd in a luxurious loge, bathed in its own spotlight, announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, the royal waltz, the first dance of the evening.”

Bilbo marvels at the surety and speed with which the floor is cleared, and the music swells again as the dancers enter, the women in stunning silver dresses all but set ablaze by the light, blue flowers in their hair, and the men in black tailcoats, complimenting the ladies with the blue of their bow ties.

Balin motions to Bilbo, and leads him to the side of the staircase to get a better view as the dancers swirl effortlessly, like flowers coming to full bloom before their eyes.

“The Princess loved this – she was the one to lead the first dance every year,” Balin tells Bilbo quietly, smiling at the memory “every other lady wore silver, while she wore blue... it was quite the sight.”

“I imagine,” Bilbo sighs, then, stealing a glance at the King now slightly higher than them, watching the dance with the faintest smile, hands folded behind his back, the boys by his side fortunately completely calm, “what about His Majesty?”

“Do you mean dancing?” Balin mumbles, and when Bilbo nods, he chuckles for whatever reason, “it's his duty. There is quite a list lined up for him tonight, you'll see. ...Doesn't mean he enjoys it, though,” the Chief of Staff adds discreetly after a moment's hesitation, smirking, and Bilbo snickers.

“What about you, Professor? Will you grace the dance floor tonight?”

“Late into the night, when no one's looking, perhaps,” Bilbo offers lightly, and Balin chuckles.  
“But you do have some company, I hear?”

“Oh, well, yes, actually,” Bilbo stammers, “Miss Smythe, the Principal at Fili's school. But it's not... I mean, it's just that; company. She asked me to help her fend off unwanted attention.”

“Charming,” Balin laughs.

 

The first dance comes to a glorious end, and everyone applauds. The host reminds everyone of the following program – an hour or so of dancing until the banquet is ready, which is when the real fun begins, as far as Bilbo is concerned. Everything important will be happening in the main ballroom of course, including the Royal Opera's main alto's performance, which Bilbo longs to see, but the whole Wing will be filled with music and other opportunities for entertainment, and Bilbo can't wait to explore everything.

The King walks to them then, Bilbo's gut clenching in a momentary knot of nervousness for some indiscernible reason.

“ _Mizùl_ _,_ Your Majesty,” Balin says conspiratorially, and the King rolls his eyes discreetly, nodding, while Bilbo frowns in confusion, and they watch him walk towards the dance floor.

“Good luck?” Bilbo asks, “with what?”

“Oh, His Majesty's first dance partner,” Balin shakes his head, “the Prime Minister's mother, Duchess Elsa of _Khirikhundun_ – the King's Aunt. ...She's a handful. I suggest you snatch some champagne before you're introduced. There she is. The man next to her, with the blue sash, that's the Prime Minister, Dain Kirikhbuzun _,_ his wife Barbra by his side, and his children, Erik and Freiya. If you leave them with Fili and Kili unattended for too long, this place will go up in flames, just a fair warning.”

Bilbo chuckles, albeit a bit feebly. The Duchess is very short, but very formidable, sharp nose and eyes like a hawk's scanning her surroundings, her dark purple fan, the same color as her magnificent dress, chopping the air in curt, almost violent waves. Her son, the Prime Minister is very unlike her, almost as tall as Thorin, but chubbier and somehow altogether softer, his smile much warmer than that of his mother when the King approaches them and greets them. The Duchess graciously lets the King lead her to the dance floor, followed closely by Dain with his beautiful wife. The tune is different this time, the slow foxtrot, if Bilbo isn't mistaken, but before he can start admiring it properly, both Princes appear at his side and tug him towards the Prime Minister's children, standing at the edge of the dance floor.

“ _Shamukh!_ ” Kili exclaims cheerfully, and the boys introduce him to Erik and Freiya – the girl is a couple of years older than Kili, and the boy is about Fili's age, and they are both infinitely nice, asking him about England and trying to convince him to let them quietly disappear from the ballroom.

“After the banquet,” Bilbo waggles his finger at them, “I'll let you go wherever you want, _but_ I'm still responsible for the two of you, Fili, Kili. No funny business.”

Fili and Kili look at each other, then both plaster a hand over their heart and nod solemnly.

“We swear!” they declare in unison, and Freiya giggles, while the boy, Erik, raises his eyebrows.

The dance draws to an end then, and suddenly, Bilbo is surrounded by nobility and being introduced to the Prime Minister himself, blushing a little and doing his best to remember his Etiquette classes – Dain shakes his hand firmly, and his mother lets Bilbo bring her hand to his mouth in a rather formal greeting, Dain's wife doing the same, albeit with much more warmth.

Bilbo feels at least marginally safe with the King by his side, but His Majesty excuses himself swiftly, his dancing duties continuing, and Bilbo remains alone with the _Ironfoot_ family. Fili asks Freiya for a dance, and Erik's mother ushers him to go and ask the daughter of this or that diplomat, which he complies with with an epic scowl. Kili obviously doesn't want to be alone with the adults, and so he bolts to join Fili and Freiya at the dance floor before Bilbo can stop him.

“So, you're the miracle worker,” the Prime Minister chuckles, and Bilbo frowns in slight confusion.

“I'm... am I?” he stutters.

“Oh, I should think so! Last year, the boys didn't even show up,” Dain says, and his wife nods.

“And Fili's in school now?” she adds, “how wonderful is that?”

“I...” Bilbo tries.

“We never thought Thorin would let him out, didn't we, mother?”

“Ah, yes,” the Duchess remarks absentmindedly, scrutinizing the crowd, probably searching for someone.

“He was very strict about... the whole affair,” Dain says quietly, “you know. Very strict indeed.”

“Hmm?” Bilbo tilts his head, “all I did was... well, give His Majesty a little nudge.”

“Exactly!” the Prime Minister laughs, and even the Duchess smirks, her piercing gaze now dedicated to Bilbo.

“Nobody gives His Majesty _a nudge_ ,” Dain continues, “not without having the corresponding limbs chopped off right after. Tell us, what's your secret?”

“I imagine it's the same as Thorin's secret,” the Duchess remarks dryly, and both the Prime Minister and his wife scowl, while Bilbo grows increasingly more confused by the conversation.

“Mother,” Dain shakes his head, and she shrugs non-committaly.

“What, erm... what secret are we talking about?” Bilbo asks carefully, and to his surprise, the Duchess winks at him, before graciously floating away and disappearing into the crowd.

“Excuse her,” the Prime Minister says, and Bilbo shakes his head, still a bit baffled.

“And excuse us,” Dain's wife adds, “but I believe I see the Hurins, darling. We should go and say hi.”

“Oh, oh you're right!” Dain nods, and Bilbo can't help but marvel at the fact that this cheerful, round face basically rules the country.

“It was such a pleasure meeting you,” Barbra smiles at Bilbo, “the King is lucky to have you. Come now, darling.”

“A pleasure!” Dain waves at him, but his wife is already leading him away, gently but firmly, and so Bilbo merely nods to him, and exhales raggedly, scouring the dance floor for the Princes and finding them and the Prime Minister's daughter all dancing together at the far edge of it, hand in hand in a circle. Bilbo sighs happily, and his gaze slides from them, admiring the other couples, and, well, if he desires to see who the King is dancing with now, what's the harm in that? The slight relief at finding out that Thorin's partner is yet another lady much older than him makes Bilbo laugh.

“That's my grandmother!” he hears then.

“...Fridda! Hello! Oh, but you look wonderful!”

“Thank you,” she smiles a bit shyly after he kisses both her cheeks cordially.

She's wearing a glorious flowing strapless gown, a very flattering shade of green, a nice contrast with her red hair in an intricate updo, and seems very happy with herself too, comfortable in her own skin.

“The suit turned out excellent, too!” she comments, brushing an invisible speck off Bilbo's shoulder, and he grins, smoothing down the front of it.

“Thank you. I really like the shiny lapels.”

“I'm surprised at the lack of polka dots,” she remarks.

“I don't wear them _that much!_ ”

“Oh, right.”

“...Anyway,” he sniggers, “that's your grandmother with the King?”

“Yes!” she nods excitedly, “isn't she just beaming? She's seventy-eight, you know!”

“Really? Doesn't look a year over... erm, sixty!”

“Tell that to her,” she chuckles, punching his shoulder playfully, “though I should warn you, she does have a habit of being overly friendly to nice young men like yourself. I'm surprised she hasn't tried to snog His Majesty yet. He's lucky he's so tall.”

They watch the dance conclude, Bilbo keeping an eye on the Princes while Fridda chatters away about all the people she's going to have to introduce him to, and to be completely honest, Bilbo's heart leaps when the King notices them and leads his dancing partner to her granddaughter. The second Duchess Bilbo has met in the past ten minutes isn't any less stunning than the first one, and she's infinitely kinder, too, scowling when Bilbo goes for the formal greeting, leaning in and kissing both his cheeks so earnestly it makes him blush a little.

“It's so good to finally meet you, _gimlan_ _î_ _th_ _,_ ” she exclaims happily, calling him 'little star', if Bilbo isn't mistaken “now take the girl dancing, will you?”

“Oh, I'm, I'm afraid I must keep watch over the Princes, Ma'am,” Bilbo explains, “goodness knows what could happen if I let them out of my sight.”

“Nonsense!” the Duchess frowns, “Thorin, I demand you let your man dance with my granddaughter.”

The King raises his eyebrow and Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but His Majesty smiles then, stating gracefully: “Well, if you _demand_ it, I can hardly protest. Go on, Professor.”

“Right,” Bilbo sighs, shooting a nervous look at Fridda, who merely shrugs with a bright smile.

Both the King and the Duchess are eying him expectantly, and so he simply sighs and offers his arm to Fridda, leading her away.

“You know I haven't danced in quite some time, don't you?” he mumbles somewhat desperately while they search for a good spot amidst the other couples, “I apologize in advance for any injuries.”

“You'll be fine, if you can just stop gaping at His Majesty,” Fridda offers, and Bilbo almost trips then, because he realizes that he has indeed been following the King's tall figure as he makes his way through the crowd to seize yet another partner.

“I'm not _gaping_ at anyone,” Bilbo says resolutely, “what are we dancing?”

“The waltz again, I believe,” Fridda replies, “slower, simpler this time. No need for all those complicated twirls, I assure you – I get head rush really easily, and I have no intention of being the fainting damsel in distress tonight.”

Bilbo chuckles, relaxing a bit.

“Are you suggesting I couldn't handle that?”

“I'm suggesting no such thing,” she grins, and puts her arm around his shoulder lightly as he gently holds her other hand in his, and off they go.

The waltz really is simple enough, Bilbo soon discovers, remembering the three-quarters rhythm and even some of the more intricate steps, and he quickly starts enjoying himself. He does trip once or twice, remarkably so when they dance past His Majesty, who utters: “Outstanding, Professor,” and Fridda can't stop giggling about Bilbo's red cheeks from then on, though he insists it's because of the dance, of course.

They manage to make their way across the span of the dance floor to the far side of the ballroom so that Bilbo can reunite with the Princes, who are surprisingly thrilled to see him. Both of them take Fridda for a spin, and Bilbo watches it with great amusement, not entirely sure which is more adorable, Fili trying to keep a straight face during the tango, or Kili just going for it and dancing like a madman during the quickstep while Fridda laughs herself breathless.

The hour of dancing flies by quickly, and just when Bilbo begins to feel his stomach protesting, the banquet is announced, and everybody is asked to move to the large gallery by the library, where it is served. Bilbo is positively chuffed at the sight of the tables upon tables of food, and though he has to be wary of the boys, who are all but ready to jump in and eat everything they see, he manages to load a plate full of salad, and chicken, and fried vegetables, and even persuades the Princes to sit with him by one of the tall windows, a bit further away from the center of the chaos. He can't but admire the logistics of the event – one would think they'd try to make everybody sit down around large tables and serve everything right under their noses, but there is something infinitely charming about the gorgeous ladies doing their best not to spill salad dressing all over their gowns, while the men try to eat as much meat as possible without looking like barbarians on a feast.

As promised, Bilbo lets the boys roam free then, making a deal with them to check in with him every hour and not break anything, which they agree with rather enthusiastically, of course. Fridda and her grandmother rejoin him then, bringing him his own glass of champagne, the first in a long line that night, and taking it upon themselves to introduce him to everyone they deem important enough. And so Bilbo meets journalists, and businessmen, and doctors, and lawyers, his head spinning with all the excitement. Fili and Kili check in every now and then, usually just running past him, yodeling about this or that as they wave at him, looking increasingly more disheveled, but Bilbo is just happy they will wear themselves out easily enough, saving him the trouble.

He soon finds that it's harder and harder not to feel like the second coming, because virtually everyone Fridda introduces him to seems to think he came to Erebor to all but rewrite its constitution – apparently getting the King to change so much about his nephews' lives is an achievement no one thought possible. Though no one says it out loud, it is obvious what some of the ladies think of that (“Always thought the King could use a Queen for all this, _if you know what I mean_ ” are some of the ruder remarks that never fail to make Bilbo unsteady on his feet for a while, before Fridda drags him away to find some less inebriated company). But mostly, he hears nothing but compliments, and as the night progresses, he does start feeling a bit proud, only hoping it's justified.

When it's time to take the boys to bed, they protest vehemently of course, Bilbo finding them smack in the middle of the dance floor, enjoying themselves immensely.

“You know what?” he tells them as he leads them through the private wing of the Palace, the sounds of the Gala now nothing more than a quiet murmur in the distance, “if you manage to stay awake until midnight, you can watch the fireworks. I'll come check up on you right after, though, so you'd better be in your beds, understood?”

“Understood!” they both exclaim, quite happy about the idea, and Bilbo just makes sure they change into their pajamas, and leaves their night lights on, promising to read to them after the fireworks, if they're still awake, that is – and they're both determined to be, of course, but after having spent the whole evening running about, and dancing, and... yes, occasionally singing at the top of their lungs, Bilbo is almost sure he'll find them fast asleep when he returns.

 

But now, he delves back into the wonderful cacophony of chatter and music in the Common Wing, finally allowing himself to get a proper drink, something stronger than bubbly, something properly colorful with at least one kind of citrus attached to the glass, and he makes his way through the crowd happily, deciding to get some fresh air, and possibly find Fridda. He has barely seen the King all night, and rightly so – he must be so busy, always talking to someone, being the perfect host. Absolutely no reason to disturb him, or expect him to take time to chat to Bilbo, after all.

“Professor Baggins!” he hears then, and swivels to find the owner of the unfamiliar voice.

A tall, lean man is approaching him, gracefully making his way through the crowd, a small smile on his face.

“I don't believe we have met,” he says, “my name is Bard Ibindikhel _,_ I'm the Editor in Chief of the _Erebor A_ _mradînhund._ The-”

“No no, wait, I've got this,” Bilbo waves him off, “the, uh... the Arrow?”

“Excellent!” Bard chuckles, “I see you've been taking your language lessons.”

“Doing my best,” Bilbo smiles, shaking the offered hand, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man nods, “I've been trying to get to talk to you all night!”

“Do... do you want an interview?” Bilbo stammers uncertainly, and Bard laughs, a rather remarkable sight, his features unusual and sharp, unruly hair even darker than his eyes.

“Do you want to give me one?” he counters.

“Not particularly.”

“As expected. No, I don't want an interview. I just wanted to meet you, the new Court sensation that you are.”

“Oh, please,” Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose, “you're not the first person to call me that tonight, and probably not the last either, I fear.”

“You seem dismayed. Do you not enjoy compliments?”

“I thought we weren't doing an interview.”

Bard laughs shortly, and Bilbo sighs, smiling.

“I just don't see what I'm doing different,” he supplies, his inhibitions probably quickly dissolving on account of the sweet drink (which is almost gone now, something that should be remedied as soon as possible), “everyone seems to think I have some secret method of persuading His Majesty to agree with me, but I assure you, we are _so_ far from agreeing _so_ often. If you do want insider information, let it be known that I managed to insult him within the first five minutes of meeting him.”

“And yet you're still here,” Bard tilts his head.

“And yet I'm still here,” Bilbo concedes, then, an unexpectedly loud slurping sound announcing that he has indeed finished his pinacolada, “do excuse me, but I think I need a refill.”

“So do I,” Bard nods, “mind if I accompany you?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you. May I ask what-”

“What brings me to Erebor?” Bilbo finishes for him, and Bard chuckles, nodding.

“Yet another question you get asked a lot?”

“You have no idea. The best answer I've been able to come up with is... chance, and the will of a particularly capricious friend.”

“Capricious? I'm flattered!”

Bilbo falters and almost trips. They find themselves by one of the smaller stairways by the library now, and when he looks up, he sees that it is indeed Gandalf descending the stairs, sporting a rather fabulous top hat and tailcoat, and of course a fancy walking cane.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo sputters, and the man's face broadens in a smile.

“My dear Bilbo! It is _such_ a pleasure to see you again!” he exclaims, shaking poor confused Bilbo's hand vigorously, “May I say, you look absolutely wonderful. Erebor suits you. ...And Mister Ibindikhel _._ Long time no see. How are you?”

“I'm very fine, sir, how are you?”

Bilbo just stares at them shaking hands as well, frowning.

“You two know each other?”

“Of course we know each other!” Gandalf declares, winking at Bard somewhat enigmatically, at least in Bilbo's eyes, “I hear you made Editor in Chief? _Bizarurimenu_!”

“ _Âkmînruk_ _menu_ _,_ ” Bard nods, “and I hear your last assignment was a bust?”

“Oh, yes,” Gandalf laughs heartily, “not one of my best days, that's for sure.”

“Assignment?” Bilbo sighs, “what assignment?”

Gandalf and Bard exchange yet another largely unreadable look, though both are smiling.

“I'm afraid we're confusing our friend with all this talk, Mister Ibindikhel _,_ ” Gandalf offers jovially, “and I also believe Miss Sigdis is to start singing any time now. The Royal Opera's alto, Bilbo, I can't recommend her enough.”

“Yes, yes, I actually... wanted to go see her...” Bilbo mumbles, utterly and completely lost at this point, “but Gandalf...”

“Come on, then, we don't want to settle for the horrible seats, do we?”

“I'll go ahead and save some for you,” Bard states and disappears in the amassing crowd ahead just like that, while Gandalf regards Bilbo almost expectantly.

“You look like you're having the time of your life,” he says, and Bilbo frowns.

“Gandalf, I have _so many questions_ for you right now.”

“I'm sure you do, dear chap,” the man snickers, “I can't promise I'll be able to answer them all.”

“You _did not_ just say that. What... what on earth are you even doing here?” Bilbo demands as they slowly make their way back to the main ballroom along with the others.

“I told you I would come see you before I left the country,” Gandalf replies simply.

“You're telling me you've been here for the past _two months?_ ” Bilbo exclaims in disbelief, “what were you doing, hiking in the Alps?”

“For the most part,” Gandalf shrugs innocently, and Bilbo groans.

“Fine, don't tell me,” he mutters, “actually, I'm sure I don't want to know.”

Gandalf squeezes his shoulder shortly.

“I'm so happy to see Erebor has been catering to your spunk,” he declares with an amused spark in his eyes, and Bilbo opens his mouth to retort, but shuts it again, scowling even more.

“Well?” Gandalf raises his eyebrows, “how is it? How's the job? How are the Princes?”

And Bilbo remembers it all at once, how he didn't want to come here, how he was originally only supposed to tutor Fili, how angry he was the first day, how _little_ he knew back then...

“It's wonderful, honestly,” he sighs, “all of it, it's... Nothing I ever would have asked for, but-”

“Everything you've ever wanted?”

“I was going to say I'm not complaining, but suit yourself,” Bilbo chuckles.

 

Gandalf laughs cheerfully, and then they concentrate on navigating the crowd and getting into the ballroom as soon as possible. Rows upon rows of chairs are now lining the dance floor, and a small stage has been erected in front of the orchestra, awaiting the arrival of the artist. Bard has saved them seats in the very first row, but Bilbo suspects it's not just because he was quick – the journalist is conversing with the King himself right now, and there it is again, the momentary jolt of nervousness deep in his gut as Thorin notices him and Gandalf.

“Doctor Grey,” His Majesty nods to Gandalf, “I am glad you could be here tonight.”

“As am I, Your Majesty. What a splendid event. More importantly, I'm pleased to see Bilbo has fit right in!”

“...So it would seem,” the King replies somewhat vaguely, and then they're all gazing at Bilbo, as if they're expecting him to contribute in some way to this horrendously confusing conversation.

“Erm,” he manages.

“I promised His Majesty I wouldn't try to make you divulge any terrible secrets,” Bard says flatly, and the King rolls his eyes.

“Yes, because I know so many,” Bilbo pfft's, “I promise I won't betray you, Your Majesty.”

“I appreciate that,” Thorin chuckles, and Bilbo pretends he doesn't notice Gandalf's curious look, the likes of which he knows far too well.

They take their seats, and the ballroom grows gradually more and more quiet, the lights dimming until it's completely dark save for the spotlight appearing on the stage. The alto is a stunning, tall woman in a rich golden gown shining against ebony skin, her raven hair impossibly long, and as Gandalf describes to him in hushed tones, she will be singing The Queen's Lament from the country's most revered opera, _Leth Danukshelemun_ , which tells the story of the very first King of Erebor and his wife.

Bilbo is not ashamed for the tears that well in his eyes about halfway through it, because if there's anything he's come to learn about Ereborean classical music, it's that it excels at conveying the desired emotion, effortlessly and powerfully, forcing all air out of his lungs with the same determination as the national anthem a couple of hours earlier, or the other opera he saw in the city the other day.

The performance concludes with a standing ovation, and Bilbo really wants to speak to Gandalf, but he disappears almost immediately, as does the King. Bard accompanies him to the nearest bar, though, and Bilbo figures he might as well ask him.

“How do you know Gandalf?” he inquires as they make their way outside onto the veranda, “I mean... everyone else seems to know him as someone else than I do.”

He's perfectly aware he's blabbering a bit, but he sincerely doesn't care, not right now, faced with the glorious sight of the gardens lit and buzzing with the chatter of the people walking slowly among the neatly trimmed bushes and lamp lights swaying in the gentle, warm breeze.

“And who do you know him as?” Bard smiles, though he seems to be a bit preoccupied with searching the crowd for someone.

“He's my former colleague,” Bilbo waves his hand, “my... boss, actually. For a while, he was the Principal at the school I taught at.”

“I see,” Bard mumbles, now stretching his neck and turning around.

“Are you looking for someone?” Bilbo mumbles.

“...Maybe,” Bard sighs, then narrows his eyes at Bilbo, “say, how would you like to assist me with some proper investigative journalism?”

Bilbo's balance betrays him for a moment, and he sways on his feet, blinking the daze away.

“I'd... yes, of course, I'd love to,” he stammers, “what are we investigating?”

“Come on,” the man merely beckons him, and then they're marching on the graveled walkway, avoiding the promenading couples and chatting groups expertly, Bilbo sipping on his drink and trying to keep up with Bard.

“What's going on?” he asks in a hushed voice, entirely too thrilled for his own good.

“I think there are some people here who shouldn't be here,” Bard replies simply, and Bilbo chokes on his drink a little bit.

“What? What people?”

The journalist is typing into his phone frantically now, and he merely utters: “How much do you know about Azog Karkâl?"

“...The politician?” Bilbo sighs.

“We don't like to call him that,” Bard waggles his finger, still staring at the screen of his smartphone, “he's a ruthless businessman, which is his most redeemable quality.”

“Yes, yes, I've heard that before,” Bilbo nods, “so... what? He's here?”

“His people might be, I thought I recognized someone.”

“He wasn't invited?”

“He was, but he declined, just like he does every single year – oh, do excuse me!”

Not watching his step, Bard all but collides with someone, grabbing the lady's shoulders to keep both of them from toppling to the ground – the lady turns out to be Fridda.

“Oh gosh, I'm so sorry,” she squeals, but then she actually notices who's still holding her in his arms, and the most glorious blush creeps into her cheeks.

“Bard Ibindikhel?” she peeps, “oh, I'm...”

“This is Miss Fridda Smythe,” Bilbo introduces her in a moment of clarity, and she disentangles herself from Bard's grasp somewhat clumsily, smoothing her dress.

“The Duchess of Khazad?” Bard offers.

“My grandmother, yes,” she giggles.  
“It's a pleasure, Ma'am,” he smiles and kisses her hand very gingerly, while her eyes grow about three sizes.

“Thank... you,” she stammers, and Bilbo chuckles, which seems to jolt her out of her daze.

“Bilbo, I've been searching for you, I haven't seen you all night,” she states.

“I'm having the time of my life,” he grins, “Mister Ibindikheland I are doing some, eh... investigative journalism.”

She frowns, and Bard rolls his eyes.  
“Did I... Did I say too much?” Bilbo blabbers, and the journalist laughs, shaking his head.

“No. Miss Smythe, we're just walking around, really. Bilbo needed some fresh air, and I needed to, um... scour the crowd. You are welcome to take him off my hands now.”

“You're making it sound like I'm barely capable of walking,” Bilbo sighs, “come on, Fridda, walk with us. Apparently some people who shouldn't be here, are here.”

Bard stiffens up a little bit as Fridda gapes at them in shock.

“...What?”

“Oh, don't listen to the man who can barely walk,” Bard declares jovially, but she cuts him off with one gesture of her hand.

“No, actually, I think I saw Gustav Daghûn just now,” she offers conspiratorially.

“ _Kulhu?_ Are you _sure?!_ ” Bard exclaims, suddenly interested.

“Yes, yes, he was right by the fountain about ten minutes ago, with his wife and that... that awful lawyer, what's his name...”

“Kheleb? Short guy, bald?”

“Yes, that's the one!”

They're staring at each other intently, and Bilbo merely toys with the straw in his mouth, feeling a little left out, and he says: “Anyone care to fill me in?” at the very same time that Bard says: “Well, I need to talk to _him,_ that's for sure.”, and both the journalist and Fridda turn at him as if they've all but forgotten he's there.

“I'm so sorry, Professor,” Bard declares, “but I need to go see what's going on, I-”

“Oh, no no, go!”

“I'll go with you,” Fridda blurts out of nowhere, blushing when they both gape at her, “I mean, Bilbo I'm...”

“Just go,” Bilbo waves his hand graciously, “go. I need to get something to eat, anyway, and... You'll tell me everything later.”

Half of that he blabbers to thin air, because they're already marching away, conversing in quick Khuzdul now, already thick as thieves, and Bilbo just inhales deeply, pulling his shoulders up.  
“...Right,” he sighs, “food.”

 

Nothing else interests him, really. He simply makes his way through the crowd, slowly, lazily, watching the stars, albeit somewhat overshadowed by the veil of the Palace's orange glow, and hopes there are still some of those delicious pizza cakes left. He loads a full plate of them, reminding himself that he needs to drink a lot of water as well if he wants to have any hope of waking up in any sort of normal state tomorrow, and then he decides he could do with a bit of seclusion.

It hits him then, as he walks across the vastness of the Palace, just how happy he is to be a part of... all this. How lucky he is to be here on this wonderfully pompous occasion. He leaves the Common Wing, leaves the noise behind once again, and the building grows quiet around him, enveloping him, and he feels very small within it, but it's a good feeling. He knows his way around, which is remarkable enough on its own. He has his little apartment, and that reading room on the third floor, which is always deserted, and all in all, he fits like a tiny cog into the vast mechanism of the _Hurmulkezer,_ and it is more than he'd ever dared hope for.

Right now, he has the perfect spot in mind for sitting down with his bowl of well-earned carbohydrates and simply just enjoying the fresh air without needing to make anymore small talk – the garden by the boys' dining room is off limits for the guests, and a blissful sigh escapes him at the sight, the bushes and the ruined theater stage bathing half in moonlight, half in the dim glow of the single lamp under the oak tree across the lawn. Bilbo simply sits down on the flat steps leading from the stone veranda into the garden, and closes his eyes when a light breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves of the rose hip bushes alike, the soft murmur of them infinitely relaxing.

He makes quite an undignified shocked gasp when he opens his eyes and the King is standing below the stairs in front of him – Bilbo didn't even hear him arrive, and he's a bit like a mirage, his features softened by the ubiquitous golden haze of the night's splendor.

“Y-your Majesty,” Bilbo stammers, “...hello.”

He ponders getting up, but can't really be sure his legs wouldn't betray him, and the King doesn't seem to be bothered.

“Hello, Professor,” he smiles softly, “...shouldn't you be dancing while the night's still young?”

“I don't know,” Bilbo blabbers, “shouldn't you be... kinging?”

The King's earnest laughter makes his head spin.

“Kinging?” Thorin repeats, “is that an official term I'm not familiar with?”

Bilbo shrugs, and His Majesty smiles some more.

“I've done quite enough _kinging_ tonight to warrant a short break, I should think,” he says, “has socializing worn you out already?”

“No, no, not at all, but these pina coladas are almost too good to be true, and I know my limits, you see. When I start making up words, it's usually time to stop talking to people.”

He knows perfectly well he's talking utter nonsense, but the King keeps smiling, and perhaps the part of Bilbo's brain that makes sure he doesn't embarrass himself in front of royalty has been overridden. ...Or, has never existed at all in the first place, which would explain a great deal.

“I trust Miss Smythe is enjoying herself?” Thorin asks then, and Bilbo frowns a little bit.

“Ah... yes, I believe she is,” he replies, “the last I saw of her, she was running off with Mister Ibindikhel _,_ in pursuit of some investigative journalism.”

He's so proud of not cocking up any of the more complicated words that he doesn't even notice the King regarding him with a strange sort of interest in his eyes at first.

“I should have warned you about him,” Thorin scoffs, “some of his ways are a bit... crude. I hope he didn't bother you too much. Well, except for stealing your lady company,” he adds with the faintest hint of hesitation that Bilbo picks up on even through the inebriation-induced haze.

“No, no, he was perfectly respectful, actually,” he waves his hand, “and I don't think he, erm... _stole_ my lady company from me. She was infatuated from the second she tripped and landed in his arms, oh, you should have seen the look on her face, it was quite something...”

But his babbling gradually dies off under the weight of the realization dawning on him, and he feels his heart beat a little faster as he asks clumsily: “Your Majesty, I... We... Were you under the impression that Miss Smythe was my lady company, as in my... lady company?”

He can't help but chuckle at his own inability to form proper sentences anymore, but his gut is also clenching at the conclusions his dizzy brain is beginning to draw from the King's intent look. Bilbo inhales deeply, and suddenly strains himself to fight the need to finish his drink in one long gulp. It's been quite some time since he had to clarify his preferences to anyone, and he always just assumed people at the Palace either knew, or didn't particularly care.

“I don't know if you're, erm, familiar with the term 'being someone's beard',” he mumbles, and to his surprise, the King laughs again.

“More familiar than you'd think,” he says simply, and to be completely honest, Bilbo's jaw drops a little at the glimmer in his eyes.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “Fridda asked me to keep her company tonight, but you see, in the true sense of the word, she was actually... I mean, simply put, she was _my_ beard, much more than I was hers.”

His breathing almost stops as he awaits His Majesty's reaction, but if it affects him in any major way, he doesn't let it show, merely regards Bilbo, hands folded behind his back.

“I see,” he says at last, calmly, and Bilbo squints at him.

“...Do you? I'm sorry, it must be the alcohol, but that sounded vaguely ominous in my head.”

Oh yeah, definitely a good thing to say, dear _Lord._

“Did it?” Thorin's eyebrows arch up, and Bilbo feels his temples starting to throb from the overwhelming vagueness of the whole situation.

“Your Majesty,” he declares, “I'm just hoping I didn't offend you in any way-”

“ _You_ offend _me_?” the King seems genuinely amused now, much to Bilbo's quiet dismay, “I was the one who assumed your lady company was actually your lady company, as you so eloquently put it.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, and forgets to shut it for a while, because his brain is betraying him, his supply of wit and quick responses running short. Thorin is still looking at him with the faintest hint of expectation, but then he smiles _again_ and extends his hand to Bilbo. Which, well... huh?

“Come on, Professor,” His Majesty says clearly, “the fireworks are about to start. It will be quite the show, I'm given to understand.”

Bilbo still gapes at him, vastly baffled, gapes at the hand offered to him, and the tiniest smirk curving his lips, and strangely enough, the glossy sash across his chest, glistening in whatever light reaches them, and cant' help but think... Oh, now you've gone and screwed up proper, Bilbo Baggins. Because there is no escape from that sudden bundle of warmth blossoming in his heart, he knows. He knows the next intake of breath will be too glorious to be true, that the air will set him ablaze in that wonderfully dangerousway everything does when one finally admits something to oneself.

His heart is tolling like a bell when he puts his hand in the King's, and lets him pull him to his feet. Thorin offers naught but yet another short smirk, blissfully oblivious to the nuclear meltdown currently unfolding smack in the middle of Bilbo's chest, and walks past him back inside the Palace, and of course, _of course_ Bilbo has no choice but to follow him.

And of course they watch the bloody fireworks side by side on the marvelous bloody staircase at the main entrance, and they might be surrounded by dozens of other people, but Bilbo really doesn't see any of them. He's angry with himself all of a sudden, for reasons that will probably give him a rightfully horrendous headache in the morning, and he's... He should have seen this coming. He doesn't dare steal but a single glance at the King as the white marble of the _Hurmulkezer_ is showered in bright greens and purples and reds and yellows, and he almost flinches when the applause starts, hundreds of heads turning to where he stands, and it takes him a good couple of seconds to realize that the attention is on Thorin, not him. The King thanks the guests very heartily, followed by more applause, and Bilbo suddenly sorely wishes to be as far away from the crowd as possible, and when he realizes he has the perfect excuse, he's almost sinfully relieved.

People begin crowding around the King to say their goodbyes, which offers Bilbo the opportunity to slip away. He doesn't want to see Fridda, who would be all chipper and excited and ask him questions, and he doesn't want to see Gandalf, who would take one look and know exactly what's wrong with him. He doesn't want to see anyone, really, and so he hurries to the private part of the Palace, quickly up the stairs even though he's a bit breathless and certainly in no state to be running around without the risk of breaking something, and he only ever slows down when he reaches the boys' quarters, taking a moment for his breathing to slow down before he enters quietly.

They're fast asleep, the both of them, and right now, there is nothing more Bilbo could wish for, really. Except maybe not to find the King standing in the hallway when he gingerly closes the door behind himself.

“Everything alright?” His Majesty asks quietly.

“With them? Oh, yes, yes, they're sleeping.”

_With me? Not so much._

“Shouldn't you be, erm...”

“Kinging?” Thorin finishes, and Bilbo chuckles even though what he really wants is to run as far away as he can from the dark hallway and the faint smell of the King's cologne.

“Seeing the guests off,” he offers, “isn't that something you should... be doing?”

“Perhaps,” His Majesty shrugs as they walk away and up the stairs to their respective rooms, “but for once, I'm indulging in my right to disappear whenever I damn well please.”

“Ah, yes, the lesser mentioned benefits of kinging,” Bilbo blabbers, blushing when Thorin laughs quietly.

 _Oh, don't joke when your heart is threatening to burst out of your chest,_ he scolds himself, _Don't do that._

“Well then... good night, Your Majesty,” he says when they reach his floor, managing a perfectly neutral tone.

“Good night,” the King nods, “I do hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“Immensely,” Bilbo hastens to agree, “really, it was... it was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

“Good.”

Another smile, another gargantuan task of keeping himself from dissolving into a puddle of uncontrollable feelings. But at last, the King leaves him, walking up the stairs leisurely, his hands in his pockets, and Bilbo very nearly slaps himself when he realizes he's watching him ascend. He hurries into his own room, leaning on the door when he shuts it, hiding his face in his hands and groaning.

He thinks a shower might help to clear his head, but all that achieves is waking him up, and he shuffles and turns in his bed for what might be hours afterward, completely at a loss, utterly horrified and exhilarated at the same time. Out of all the reckless and stupid decisions he's made in the past months, this might be the one that will actually cost him his sanity. _How is this good for you?,_ he ruminates with an intensity he only ever reserves for the most difficult of academical problems and studies, _whoever said admitting your feelings to yourself was healthy, must have been utterly bonkers. What good can come out of this?! When exactly did you decide it would be a good idea to develop a crush on the bloody King, you impossible git?!_

* * *

 **Dictionary:**

_Amradînhund_ \- Arrow

_Bizarurimenu_ \- Congratulations

_Gimlanîth_ \- Darling (literally means ‘tiny star’)

_Ibindikhel_ \- Bowman

_Kirikhbuzun_ \- Ironfoot

_Khirikhundun_ \- Iron Hills

_Leth Danukshemelun_ \- Blue Meadows

_Mizùl_ \- Good luck

_Shamukh ra alanjuz ghelekh, inhun ra uzbadun_ \- Welcome and good evening, ladies and gentlemen

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just really write 8k of an increasingly tipsy Bilbo leading increasingly vague conversations at the Gala?? I believe I did. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and I promise the next chapter will be very storyline-heavy.  
> Also, it is worth noting that Bard's surname literally means 'Bowman', and Dain's surname literally means 'Ironfoot'. Okay, carry on.


	8. Chapter 8

It's all just so impossibly inconvenient. Bilbo tries not to think about it – he's very good at that, not thinking about things until they start gnawing at his nerves so painfully he wants to set himself on fire. It's the bit of his father in him, he knows. The bit telling him feelings are horrible, and a nuisance. They slow you down, muddle your judgment, rear their ugly heads at the least desirable moments. Of course, Bilbo's mother was the one who taught him to pursue them instead, deal with them, face them because they _must_ be faced. Obviously, none of her strategies, no matter how intricate, could ever apply to Bilbo's current situation.

He tries not to mope too much about the fact that the first major crush he's had in quite some time is on a King. The notion is so beyond the realm of his coping abilities it actually comes full circle and makes him laugh at the utter ridiculousness of it. Hell, even calling it a crush suggests he's a nervous teenager who can't even be in the same room with the person he's mooning over without losing the ability to form coherent sentences and just altogether act like a normal human being. It's more of a... a delicate emotional instability.

And no, calling it fancy names certainly doesn't ease his suffering, but it helps him make feel less... well, less helpless. Because things have never been particularly easy for him when it came to romance, but at least the objects of his affections were all actually approachable, or capable of reciprocating, for that matter.

No, it's silly, and it's wrong, he soon decides resolutely – he can't in his right mind expect anything to come out of it, and so he'll just force any and all feelings away until they fade completely. There. A sound strategy. His father would be really proud. His mother would probably smack him.

But of course, as it always goes, the world decides to be everything but helpful. For some reason, Bilbo bumps into His Majesty about a dozen times every day, and he soon develops that horribly inconvenient condition where every room and hallway feels just that one bit lighter when the King is there. Every crowd is scanned for his presence. Every meeting is pondered over for a long time afterward. Every day – and, alright, he'd better stop there before he's rendered incapable of functioning on the days that he doesn't get to see the King at all. 

Which, as far as Bilbo understands, are becoming the norm – more electoral candidates are requesting debates, and the Senate is apparently working on some sort of new law which Bilbo understands little of, but all of that means His Majesty spends a lot of time away. And yet, somehow (definitely not induced by the fact that his senses are somewhat heightened regarding the whole matter), Bilbo notices a slight shift that he knows he's at least partially responsible for. The King and his nephews begin the slowest possible way towards recovering their relationship, but a way it is nevertheless. Thorin gets lunch with them on the weekends, and the dialogue between him and the boys flows more or less smoothly with Bilbo's assistance. He often offers Fili help with his homework, and sometimes the boy accepts and sometimes he doesn't, but it really is the effort that matters.

The Prince himself is doing absolutely fabulous, much to Bilbo's joy – he's meticulous about his school work, even though he sometimes fails to see what the problem is in loudly letting everyone know just how smart he is. After some convincing, the King allows him to join a movie club at school, which is a great opportunity for the boy to get out more. It includes watching a new film every week on Thursday afternoons, but most importantly, the children get to shoot their own movie, and Fili comes home excited and brimming with ideas, and also, one day, with a request.

“And how much would there be of you?” the King asks, looming in the doorway to the boys' rooms, Kili and Bilbo sprawled on the ground over a puzzle, Fili fidgeting a bit nervously.

“Just... just me and Ori the first time – he's the cameraman,” Fili turns to Bilbo, who nods supportively, and encouraged, the boy continues, “he'd just look at the park, and the ponds.”

“Which is where the battle would be, right?” Bilbo smiles, and the King's eyebrows arch up.

“The battle?” he repeats with the faintest hint of amusement.

“...Yeah,” Fili nods, “it's like a... a fight between the evil kids who come from the other side of the portal and the good kids who are just walking around the forest. And they see this light, and they follow it, and the ponds have that little clearing with the tree, you know?”

“I know,” Thorin chuckles, “so, again... how many warriors would there be?”

“Well, there's me, and Ori, and the twins, Karla and Karin, and Matt, and Ezra... So six? Yeah. Two kids in the forest, and four bad guys.”

“I wanna be a kid in the forest too!” Kili exclaims, “can I get a sword?”

“A wooden one, maybe,” Bilbo snickers, and Fili pfft's.

“Obviously they fight with magic!”

“Oh, obviously. I'm so sorry,” Bilbo grins, and the King chuckles.

“Well then,” he declares, “I'm confident the Palace can withstand some more magic warriors. You can do it.”

Fili's eyes grow at least three sizes, and Bilbo can see him all but bounce with excitement, but he restrains himself and thanks his Uncle very politely, solemnly promising not to set the park ablaze. Thorin then summons Bilbo for a word outside.

“I'm trusting you to oversee this,” he says while the Princes inside argue about giving Kili a role in the movie of the century.

“I... of course, Your Majesty,” Bilbo nods.

“I'd like the children to be kept outside the Palace as much as possible.”

“They're not a pack of rabid monkeys, Your Majesty,” Bilbo prods gently, and the King chuckles.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I'll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

“Y _âdùshu_ _n_ _._ ”

The King's gaze pierces him, and Bilbo clears his throat.

“Do forgive me, my pronunciation is probably still atrocious, but I find it best to practice as often as I can.”

“No, it's actually rather astonishing,” Thorin says simply, and Bilbo does hope the dim light of the hallway conceals his blush somewhat, “ _ghelekhmez_ _._ ” Well done.

“Ah, um... _Âkmînruk menu_.” Right, yes, the formal version of 'thank you', thank God he remembered.

The King smiles entirely too kindly for Bilbo to even acknowledge without his heart making a silly little leap.

“Say, there is one more thing I would like to ask you to handle,” His Majesty adds, while the noises from inside the Princes' room suggest the boys have started practicing their magic spells out loud.

“Anything,” Bilbo blurts out earnestly before he can stop himself, but the King doesn't seem to notice.

“Kili's birthday is coming up. Well, in a month, but still, last year was... rather underwhelming, I'm afraid,” the King's gaze flickers away, and Bilbo swallows a sudden onslaught of compassion.

“Understandable,” he says quietly, “I'd love to do it! Any, erm, restrictions? Anything I absolutely shouldn't consider?”

At that moment, a victorious cry and a loud bang comes from the inside, followed by a prompt 'It's nothing!', and both the King and Bilbo chuckle.

“Well, real magic is out of the question,” Thorin says flatly, “but other than that, nothing immediately comes to mind. Discuss everything with Balin. Can I trust you to make this happen without my intervention?”

“Absolutely,” Bilbo affirms.

The King all but sighs in relief, and he grants Bilbo another one of those unexpectedly nice and wonderfully heart-stopping smiles.

“ _Âkmînruk_ _zu,_ ” His Majesty says, and it doesn't occur to Bilbo until he watches him walk away – he used the singular form, _zu_ instead of _menu_ , which, much like in German for example, stands for the informal way of addressing.

And that's really not something anyone should be flailing about ( _perhaps he just forgot, you idiot_ ), but then again, Bilbo's linguistics major has left him, if anything, with the appreciation for the gentle nuances of languages, and this is something so subtle, and yet so beautiful, and...

“Well, you really are in way too deep, aren't you?” he mutters to himself, a sigh that is as exasperated as it is dreamy escaping him, and he rakes his hand through his hair.

This is going well.

 

Fortunately, the coming days provide enough distractions, and of the least expected nature, too. Fridda invites him out to a coffee, and he half expects to meet some more of her exciting friends, but he's surprised to find Bard Ibindikhel sitting across the table. The journalist greets him perfectly casually, but Bilbo's sixth sense is telling him something is going on (or it might just be his friend Fridda being overly cheerful and fidgeting nervously, who knows).

“I'm sorry I disappeared on you at the Gala,” she tells Bilbo, and he waves her off.

“It's fine. I'm assuming you'd like to tell me a little something about that investigative journalism you and Mister Ibindikhel did there?”

Bard laughs.

“Straight to the point,” he nods, “an admirable quality.”

Bilbo squints at him.

“Right. What is this about?”

“You remember how I saw someone at the Gala who I thought shouldn't be there?”

“Oh, so I didn't dream that?” Bilbo remarks curtly, retreating to dry humor for whatever reason, “thank god. The pina coladas were pretty strong.”

“You didn't,” Bard notes, “and neither did I. All of the people I'd interviewed that night were from the innermost circle of Azog Karkâl's political party. I'm quite certain most of them hadn't even been invited, but somehow, they'd all procured an invitation anyway. You can imagine how hard it was to get them to talk to me.”

“Surely,” Bilbo says noncommittally, and Bard frowns momentarily, but then he leans forward as if he's about to divulge some sort of state secret, which... Bilbo really, really hopes he isn't.

“Karkâl himself is all but spotless when it comes to a criminal record,” the journalist explains, “he has to be, what with his family owning the Moria Conglomerate and everything. But some of the people I met that night are shady even in a good light. Karkâl choosing to cooperate with them is questionable at best, unless he's hoping he'll manage to swipe everything under the rug before someone finds out.”

“Well, let's hope someone finds out sooner than that,” Bilbo shrugs, increasingly more certain about the serious talk he's going to have with Fridda about setting up meetings without his knowledge.

Bard and Fridda exchange an infuriatingly vague look, and the journalist drums his fingers on the table while Fridda sips on her coffee somewhat sheepishly.

“All of these people – a couple of lawyers, the former Chief of the Royal Bank, a former politician or two – have one thing in common,” Bard says, “before the revolution, they all worked Smaug Bundushar. Are you familiar with the name?”

“Not at all.”

“He was a significant public figure during Thror's rule. Started out as a common stock broker, made it to a 51 percent shareholder of the Moria Conglomerate. Most importantly, he and Karkâl's father, Bolg, were the ones who wanted the Crown out of the picture. Smaug was an international figure, so it was easy for him to make every offense against him simply disappear. The Karkâls were the ones who were, for some time, blamed for the assassination of the old King. But my mother built a case against Bundushar. She was convinced he was the one behind all of it, but before she could take his suspicions anywhere, Bundushar left the country. Disappeared completely. He had that kind of power. No one has heard from him in ten years.”

“That's fascinating,” Bilbo sighs, sipping on his coffee and shooting a meaningful, slightly displeased look at Fridda, who wrings her hands in her lap, “but if I were interested in a lesson in Ereborean political history, I would have asked our Chief of Staff. You should see him when he gets going. Uses paintings as a visual aid, too. Powerful stuff.”

Bard frowns, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright then,” he states, “what if I told you I needed your help?”

“Then I would question your ability to speak clearly, and probably make a half-hearted attempt to conceal my sarcasm.”

Fridda sighs very discreetly, but Bard laughs.

“I'm sorry, I'm not being very clear.”

“You're really not.”

“The point is,” the journalist says,” Smaug Bundushar is back in Erebor. Nobody knows when he arrived, but we've been aware he's here for about three months now. He's not exactly letting everyone and their neighbor know.”

“Bard – Mister Ibindikhel wants to re-open his mother's case against Bundushar,” Fridda adds almost conspiratorially.

“Sorry, why are you so invested in this again?” Bilbo asks her, and she blushes.

“My... my grandmother is. It's a long story.”

“Anyway,” Bard continues, “I have my suspicions. I think Bundushar might be the brain behind Karkâl's political rise. Financial aid, what have you. The Karkâl family owe him a lot, he sold them his share of Moria before he left ten years ago. You must understand, if Karkâl becomes Prime Minister, it'll be very bad news for this country, and the Crown especially. Which is something Bundushar would have wanted way back when. ...Something's not right here, the timing is too good.”

“But you have no proof,” Bilbo offers flatly.

“Very little,” the journalist nods.

“Which is-” Fridda starts, but Bilbo cuts her off with one stern gesture of his hand.

“If you say 'which is where you come in', I swear to god I will start punching things.”

“I'm sorry,” she peeps, and Bilbo sighs.

“...It is where I come in, isn't it?” he mumbles, and Bard gazes at him, quietly intrigued.

“Perhaps,” he affirms.

“Oh, great.”

“We know where Bundushar's staying. He won't speak to the media just yet, but I've been corresponding with him for some time now, under a fake identity.”

Bilbo sits up in his chair, looking around the cozy little cafe, but no one seems to be paying attention. No one seems in the least alarmed that they're talking about fake bloody identities all of a sudden.

“...And?” he asks carefully.

“And I'm a British reporter who studied his work, and is visiting Erebor, and would just _love_ to meet him because he admires him _so_ much. It's fascinating how easy that man is when it comes to well-worded flattery.”

“I imagine,” Bilbo says feebly, “so, let me get this straight – you want me to impersonate a non-existent reporter and go talk to a secretive, potentially dangerous man to find out more about his... what? Methods? His plans to overthrow the Crown and rule Erebor?”

His voice rises and falls again into a fervent hiss when they shush him, and Bard simply gazes at him calmly, while Fridda is all but biting her nails with nervousness. 

“Can you do it?” the journalist asks simply.

“Can I – yeah, I'm all in, of course!”

“Really?” Fridda squeaks.

“No, not really!” Bilbo exclaims, “this is ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! This is... this is like secret agent stuff! Undercover missions? Are you _insane?_ Why me?!”

“You're inconspicuous,” Bard offers flatly.

“And... and British,” Fridda adds, while Bilbo gapes at them incredulously.

“Are you both out of your _minds?_ ” he cries.

“Smaug is notoriously good at keeping track of people,” Bard merely continues, “he knows every single important face by now, and he remembers everyone. You've only been in the country for what? Two, three months? It's perfect.”

“No, it's not _perfect,_ ” Bilbo retorts, “it's _insane._ You couldn't in your right mind expect me to agree to this.”

“It was a long shot,” Bard admits, and Bilbo huffs a dry laugh, then glares at Fridda.

“Promise me our next outing will be more pleasant,” he says curtly, and she hangs her head.

“I'm sorry,” she mutters, “but I just thought... well, you're so... so adventurous.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” Bilbo scoffs.

“The King doesn't know about any of this,” Bard offers, and he just... he must _know_ that will gain Bilbo's attention, dammit.

“As far as he's concerned, Smaug returning to Erebor is the least of his worries,” the journalist continues, “which is exactly how Bundushar wants it, I'm guessing.”

Bilbo crosses his arms over his chest and sighs deeply.

“I don't want any part in any... any conspiracies,” he utters, then hastens to add, “And if you say something like 'oh, but you're a part of one already', I swear...”

Bard chuckles humorlessly, exchanging yet another vague glance with Fridda.

“I understand that,” he says simply, “I'm sorry I came with all of this to you out of nowhere. But if you could please just... think about it. For the King,” he finishes meaningfully, and Bilbo groans, rolling his eyes.

“You people,” he sighs, waving his hand noncommittally, “you journalists and your, your... zest for trouble. You know, one would say I deserve some peace and quiet.”

“I'm too eager for my own good, I do admit as much,” Bard smiles shortly, “but I really do think I have a chance here, to stumble upon something big. Finish my mother's work.”

“And I wish you the best of luck,” Bilbo nods eagerly.

Bard measures him, long and hard, and Bilbo glares back defiantly.

“Think about it?” the journalist says at last, and Bilbo shakes his head solemnly.

“I can make no such promise.”

 

But of course the peculiar meeting stays with him, prodding at the back of his mind for the rest of the day, only ever fed to the point of genuine interest when he's sitting with Bofur and Bombur and a couple of others in the cafeteria that evening, and upon his asking 'Say, who's Smaug Bundushar?' everyone stiffens up and glares at him as if he just said the worst of curses.

“...Why?” Bombur inquires carefully.

“Oh, I just, uhm, saw his name in... in one of those old newspapers Balin's been relaying me,” Bilbo stammers, somehow convinced that bringing up the journalist wouldn't be the smartest course of action, “and he just... well, he seemed like someone significant, but I'd much rather hear the story, than research the story, you know what I mean?”

“Oh, he was someone significant alright,” Bofur says darkly.

And they tell Bilbo pretty much the same story that Bard did – filled with vague half-truths and conclusions drawn from sheer wild speculation. No one actually seems to know how Smaug came by all his money, but they all agree it certainly must have been some very unsavory business. They also seem to agree on the fact that he's much worse news than Azog Karkâl, and before long, they start spinning theories, up to the point where Bilbo feels immensely sorry for ever bringing the man up.

“A word of warning though – don't ask His Majesty about Bundushar,” Bofur says, “the name alone can really get his blood boiling, and he has enough to worry about as it is.”

“No, yes, of course,” Bilbo mumbles.

“You should have seen the debates between His Majesty's father and Smaug,” Bombur adds, “stuff of legends.”

“More like the stuff of horror stories,” Bofur remarks grimly, “thank god that part of our history is behind us now.”

And Bilbo really doesn't want to be intrigued. He doesn't need this. He doesn't _deserve_ this. He's still just a glorified nanny, for crying out loud! Which is why he almost throws his tablet away in righteous indignation the very next day when he receives an e-mail from Bard, with the whole batch of conversations between him – well, the fake British journalist (Kevin Kent? Really? Might as well have named him Clark) – and Smaug, and... isn't this, like, classified information? Bilbo has a distinct nagging feeling that he'll get into trouble the second he opens those attachments, and so he simply tries his best to forget about it altogether. Just... ignore it, refuse to acknowledge it at all. The smartest thing he can do, surely.

 

And he really is excellent at forgetting about things. Or, pushing them as far back in his mind as they will go, until he simply stops thinking about them. He devotes himself to Fili's little project, which is tremendously fun. The first time around, the Prince brings Ori, a short, scrawny boy with a messy mane of orange hair, who also happens to be the brother of Dori Haban, the esteemed tailor, and after Ori overcomes his initial awe at being on the Palace grounds at all, they spend the afternoon running around the park, picking the best locations to film. Ori scribbles impressively detailed storyboards into his notebook while Fili poses amidst the ponds and jumps over stumps and logs, Bilbo watching from a safe distance, thrilled to see the boy enjoying himself this much.

The real fun begins when Fili somehow manages to arrange for Bilbo to be the designated driver of the whole team – entirely unsuspecting, Bilbo receives a call from Fridda one day, a bit nervous because all of a sudden, the parents of four kids want to know what it means, their offspring spending an afternoon at the Palace.

“I thought we could pick them up on Saturday!” Fili exclaims when Bilbo confronts him, “and, and Ori's brother will be making costumes for us! And we need to pick them up, and then I thought we could film in the afternoon, and then we could drive everybody back home...?”

He's gaping at Bilbo with large, eager eyes, bouncing up and down in sheer excitement, and obviously, he can't say no to that. To be honest, he's quite impressed with Fili's vigor and determination – he seems to have it all figured out. And after all, it will save him one day of figuring out a program for the boys.

He deals with the calls of a couple of worried mothers, assuring them that their children will be taken care of properly, and that yes, certainly, please pack them a snack, and no, they don't need to wear anything special, there's no protocol for that, Ma'am... He cancels Fili's and Kili's Saturday extracurriculars, and the crowning glory of the whole event is a very formal call he receives from the Dori Haban workshop, announcing that a dozen magical capes and what have you are ready to be picked up 'at your earliest leisure'. Bilbo almost forgets to notify Balin, who fortunately seems nothing but endlessly amused, bless him, and promises to take care of everything as long as Bilbo promises to keep the little filmmakers in check.

Bofur lends him a minivan from the car park, and after a quick Saturday lunch, Bilbo and the overexcited Princes set out for the city, picking up the four children at one of the main squares, accompanied by their parents, the mothers of the two boys worried sick, the father of the twins, Karla and Karin, obviously overjoyed to let someone else deal with the fiery duo for one day. The kids can't stop talking over one another, sharing their ideas and excitement as Bilbo drives to the Haban workshop to pick up Ori and the costumes, and then it's him, seven children, and a dozen beautiful, colorful costumes making their way back to the Palace, and he thinks, _this is why I'm here. Not shady political conspiracies and even shadier deals. This. The kids. Making the Princes happy, letting them enjoy themselves, helping them find friends._

It strikes him then, just how much Fili has gained in the past months, and he's a bit overwhelmed with fondness for the boy, and his brother – Fili lets Kili lean in as Ori shows everyone the 'work in progress' on his video camera, and Bilbo reminds himself that it's not so long ago that the boys didn't really have anyone but each other. It's not so long ago that Fili was banned from even leaving the bloody Palace. Yes, those are the real, important achievements, Bilbo decides.

He lets the children admire the _Hurmulkezer_ in all its glory, doing his best to keep them as quiet as possible as he leads them to the Princes' quarters to leave their belongings there, and quickly ushering them back outside before they forget themselves with Fili's computer and Kili's racing track. The Princes lead the group into the park, Ori reciting the script as they march, and everyone ooh's and aah's when they reach the ponds, and Bilbo has to be pretty strict to keep them from trampling the flowers and freshly trimmed bushes. He's a bit worried about getting the children to work at all, but Fili is surprisingly good at organizing them all, and after the costumes are sorted, everything starts more or less smoothly, and Bilbo is impressed, really. The children thought of everything, Fili and Kili with Karin in their regular clothes, playing the 'normal' kids, and the others in the colorful capes playing the _dush_ _a_ _khûnî_ _th_ – the 'dark children' living in the world beyond the portal. It's all very Chronicles of Narnia in some way, and Bilbo enjoys immensely watching it come to life, offering his insights and helping Ori govern everyone from behind the camera.

Everybody is so immersed in their work in fact, that they fail to notice Bombur with Mirjam coming, pushing a cart with a drink dispenser full of pink lemonade – Bilbo shushes them curtly because they're in the middle of filming a scene, and only then does he notice the King trailing behind them, watching everything with much amusement. The children have extraordinary self-control, because they manage to finish the scene, to a thunderous applause from the adults, and only then do they let their excitement regarding the newly appeared snacks show, each snatching a cup and a sweet bun from the wicker basket in Mirjam's arms, and gathering around Ori to review the footage, very professional and completely oblivious to His Majesty himself regarding them.

“Impressive,” Thorin declares quietly, coming to stand by Bilbo's side.

“Well, we're not burning down the park yet,” Bilbo replies.

“Perhaps the greatest achievement of all,” the King smiles.

“ _Indâd,_ come here!” Kili interrupts them, motioning both of them over, “you need to see this! Bilbo, you too!”

The King and Bilbo exchange an amused look, and go over to the children, everybody gathering around the video camera once more, if a bit warily now that His Majesty is among them, obviously eager to know what he'll think about their work. Bilbo stands surrounded by the children 'Because you're so short!', Ori with the video camera in the middle of the close circle, and the King has the advantage of height, so he towers over them all, leaning in over Bilbo's shoulder, which hopelessly dissolves all of his concentration, of course. The scene is wonderful, the Princes and Karin just making their way through the forest, bickering about going home in time, when they start hearing odd sounds – all three are naturals, their grimaces absolutely hilarious, and Bilbo's heart flutters in glee every time the King rumbles a short laugh, their shoulders brushing every now and then... and _god, what are you, fifteen years old?,_ he scolds himself.

“ _Ghelekhmez_ _,_ everyone,” His Majesty declares when it's over, and the kids exchange overjoyed glances, “I'm really impressed. In fact, I think I'll hire all of you to make me a movie for the Peace celebrations, what do you think?”

They giggle and exclaim happily, and Thorin's fond look is dedicated to his nephews first, Bilbo second, making him blush and grin in response.

“You could finally have that big battle scene you always dreamed of, Fili,” he notes to distract himself, and the Prince chuckles.

“With real fire? And an army?”

The King tsk-tsks, waggling his finger at him.

“I'll consider the damage,” he declares, and is about to say some more, but his mobile buzzes then, and he excuses himself.

Bilbo sips on his refreshing drink and watches His Majesty discreetly as he paces back and forth on the graveled walkway, his frown deepening until he ends the call curtly, exhaling raggedly, his shoulders sagging, his smile not quite so bright when he returns to the children.

“It was a pleasure to watch you work,” he declares brightly nevertheless, “but I'm afraid I must excuse myself now. Good luck, everyone!”

A chorus of 'thank you's and 'goodbye, Your Majesty, sir's arises as Bilbo encourages them, and before the King leaves, he grants him one last grateful look, to which Bilbo offers what he only hopes is an encouraging smile, watching Thorin stride away until the children strictly remind him that they have more work to do.

 

In the next two weeks or so, he sees very little of His Majesty, but thankfully he's far too occupied with helping the children finish their movie in time to think about that too much. Also, Bard keeps sending him more or less savory e-mails, with old articles about Smaug Bundushar, and links to videos of his age-old debates, and Bilbo can only ignore all of that for so long. He delves in carefully, ordering himself not to get too immersed, and to _definitely_ not start indulging all those crazy ideas about conspiracies and betrayals, but the whole story is a bit unreal, to be fair.

Bilbo reads up on the Moria Conglomerate, an impenetrable conjunction of what started as one simple mining company and sort of evolved into the many-headed monster it is today, with a somewhat abstruse system of leadership, handling a number of massive, supra-national deals that Bilbo can't pretend to understand or care about. If anything, he's quite sure _someone_ within that beast has the means and power to cause real trouble if they so choose, but what on earth can anyone do about that? The everyday news never mentions Smaug, concentrating mostly on the progressing pre-election shenanigans, and there really is no reason to suspect anything bad is coming.

Azog Karkâl himself is an incredibly unpleasant fellow, that much is clear, but his biggest crime so far seems to be the way he sees politics as yet another means of acquiring more power – Bilbo watches the debate with him and Dain Kirikhbuzun, the current Prime Minister, and is absolutely astonished to see the kind, round man he was introduced to at the Gala turn into a firm and ruthless talker on screen, possessing every single virtue Azog doesn't, namely patience and a fair amount of quick wit. Nothing at all suggests that Azog Karkâl will succeed and snatch the Prime Minister post – he might get enough vote to get a couple of seats in the Senate, but that will be it, as far as Bilbo understands.

That's why he's not too thrilled when he goes to Sunflower Secondary one beautiful, warm afternoon, expecting to have a nice time of watching the kids' finished movie along with the other parents, and ends up being somewhat nervously confronted by Fridda. Yes, he did read the e-mails, he admits. Yes, he did read the articles. No, he won't be plunging into any clandestine operations any time soon.

“Look, if you like the man, just ask him out for a normal date,” Bilbo tells her, “you don't need me as a middle-man. You don't need insane government conspiracies as a middle-man, for that matter. In fact, I think it's rather unhealthy.”

Fridda chokes on her lemonade a little bit, cheeks turning a deep shade of red.

“I don't... I don't _like him,_ ” she stammers entirely unconvincingly, “my grandmother was actually the one who approached him, and... oh, don't look at me like that! I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'll shut up now.”

Bilbo raises his eyebrows as she sips on her lemonade entirely too vigorously, and pats her shoulder.

“Really though, ask him out,” he mumbles, and when she starts protesting again, he adds, “come on, it's starting.”

The students' movies are to be projected outside, in the school's garden, the spot the children prepared rather lovely, rows of folding chairs waiting for their parents, colorful paper lanterns hanging in the branches of the chestnut trees, swaying lightly in the gentle breeze. The school year is slowly coming to an end, the air is warm even as it starts getting dark, and the children are obviously excited, the couple of weeks left until the summer holidays no big chore for them anymore. Apart from Fili and Ori's movie, there are three more, and they're all equally exquisite, the eagerness of the children shining through in their creations, and Bilbo watches Fili muttering with his friends in the front row, and feels immensely happy and proud for him.

He did try to convince the King to come see – an incredible long shot, of course, but for his part, Thorin did seem genuinely sorry he couldn't make it, and Bilbo promised he'd bring a copy of the film for him to watch later. He needs to set up a meeting with His Majesty anyway, to agree on a date for Kili's birthday party – when he goes to Balin with the request, the Chief of Staff looks very troubled.

“His Majesty is so busy in the coming days,” he sighs, “two more debates are coming up, and he's barely been home...”

“I know all that,” Bilbo nods, “which is why I think it might be a nice distraction for him, you see-”

Balin's phone buzzes then, and he raises his finger apologetically and answers it.

“ _Umlhakh_ _,_ ” he mumbles, and Bilbo perks up expectantly, but Balin is frowning, “ _Ai_ _._ _Ai_ _,_ _shândi_ _._ _Kulh_ _ûn_ _?_ ”

Bilbo watches the man's scowl deepen.

“ _Ghelekh_ _._ And, erm, Your Majesty, I have Professor Baggins with me right now, he'd like a minute of your time regarding the – are you sure? ... _Yes._ _Sugùl ma._ I'll send him up.”

Bilbo's eyes widen, and Balin ends the call with a ragged sigh, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“His Majesty will see you in his office now, Professor,” he tells Bilbo, “just... he's had a very long, hard day.”

“I'll do my best not to waste his time,” Bilbo nods.

“Or rile him up more than is necessary.”

“You know I've never been too good at that,” Bilbo remarks lightly, and Balin chuckles shortly, shooing him off.

“Go, before he falls asleep on his paperwork again.”

“...He does that?”

“You heard nothing.”

 

Bilbo does feel a knot of indiscernible nervousness in his gut as he makes his way through the quiet hallways – the sun takes a very long time to set these days, rich orange glow sneaking in through the windows almost lazily, and it's always a couple of degrees colder inside the Palace, and somehow, the combination of all that is very appealing to Bilbo, making him want to wander out into the park until it's completely dark... He shakes his head, brushing off the strange dizziness, and finally comes to knock on the door to the King's office.

“ _Bal_ _._ ”

He enters, closing the door behind himself gingerly, and sees that His Majesty is not in his leather armchair at his desk, but lounging on the sofa on the far side of the room, watching television, and Bilbo almost turns right back around and leaves, because he doesn't think he's ever seen the King so obviously tired. The collar of his shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, his elbow on the headrest of the sofa, supporting his chin with one hand, nursing a glass of alcohol in the other, he glares at the telly, his face a mixture of exhaustion and disgust. It's soon obvious why – Bilbo recognizes the face onscreen from the dozens of articles he read. It's Smaug Bundushar.

“I... I can come back some other time,” he mumbles, but the King waves him off, muting the sound and rising from his seat with a sigh, walking over to his desk and grabbing his diary, bound in brown leather. 

“I'm afraid there will barely be any other time, Professor,” he utters, “come, let's set up a date.”

Frowning in momentary confusion, he looks around the room, searching for something.

“Ah... there, Your Majesty,” Bilbo points to the small table by the sofa, where the King's glasses are.

“Yes, thank you,” Thorin utters, putting them on and sitting down, obviously expecting Bilbo to join him.

He complies, albeit slightly uneasily, fishing out the boys' timetable on his tablet, and the King sits closer to him without much ado to see better.

“Well, erm,” Bilbo clears his throat, His Majesty's shirt one button too loose certainly the _very last_ thing on his mind, “Kili's birthday is a Thursday, which also happens to be one of his shorter days at school. I know it's still basically in the middle of the week for you, though, and I'm sure we could work out a different date...”

“Or have the party without me,” the King says quietly, with such resignation, that Bilbo's heart makes a fluttering leap.

“No, no,” he replies resolutely, “out of the question. The boys are counting on this, it would be such a shame.”

Thorin regards him wordlessly for some time, then shakes his head and scrutinizes his own schedule.

“Well, the weekend after isn't good for me, I'll be away,” he mumbles, rubbing his temple absentmindedly in an increasingly distracting manner, “Wednesday is out of the question, and I'm in court on Friday. The debate is in the morning on Thursday.”

“But that's brilliant, then,” Bilbo offers eagerly, “you'd be back just in time for the party, I was thinking about commencing at, say, three in the afternoon?”

“I don't know, Professor,” Thorin sighs.

“I do,” Bilbo says simply, and the King's eyebrows arch up, so he repeats, with more determination, “I do. It's not a... it's not an _obligation,_ Your Majesty. It's not another debate, or court hearing. It's a birthday party, and a nice way to relax, as far as I'm concerned. ...Something you could use, maybe?”

The King all but glares at him, and Bilbo is beginning to get a little fidgety, but then Thorin sighs, again, and smiles faintly.

“Alright then,” he declares, reaching for a pen, “but if the country collapses in my absence in that one afternoon, that's on you.”

“I suppose I can live with that,” Bilbo chuckles, somewhat entranced by the King's smooth handwriting as he makes a note of the party into his diary.

“The boys will be very happy,” he adds softly, and Thorin merely smiles somberly, nodding, but then something on the telly catches his attention, and he frowns, reaching for the remote.

“Excuse me for a moment, I need to...” he trails off, and Bilbo waves his hand in a vague gesture of understanding.

“Of course, of course,” he says, “I'll go now. I'm really very happy we managed to agree on a date...”

But his voice dies off, because His Majesty is gaping at him, amused and somewhat bewildered.

“You know, I wonder what it is that makes people think I always want them to leave,” he says so earnestly Bilbo blinks in confusion, “...is it something in my face? Do I give off some sort of... hostile vibe?”

Bilbo can only gape at him, and he'd like to reassure him that his face is everything but a reason to leave, but he can't really find the words that wouldn't make him sound like an utter idiot.

The King doesn't seem in the least dismayed or in any way displeased, and he merely switches the sound back on, taking his glasses off and folding them gingerly, and Bilbo forces himself to look away from him to the TV.

“ _-and while the Ereborean media are, understandably, preoccupied with the upcoming elections, Smaug Bundushar makes his return quietly, without too much unwarranted attention. Will the billionaire revisit his glory days and attempt to regain a share of the quickly growing Moria Conglomerate? Or are his interests on a more global scale these days?_ ”

“The _CNN_ are talking about him?” Bilbo remarks quietly.

“He recently re-entered the stock market in the US,” Thorin mutters, “they're interested, and... Are you familiar with Bundushar?”

“Of course, I've heard of him,” Bilbo replies smoothly, “nothing... nothing too nice, mind you.”

The King hums in approval, but frowns almost immediately afterward, because the TV shows the man himself – he has one of those faces that could belong to someone in a wide range of ages, and though he must be a decade or two older than the King, Bilbo suspects, he looks fresh in that sort of stern, slightly menacing way, but also much more distinguished than, say, Azog Karkâl.

“Why did he come back?” Bilbo asks quietly, and the King sighs.

“Good question,” he utters, “who knows.”

“ _-in conclusion, the Crown regarding Smaug Bundushar as the very least of their worries might just be exactly the way he wants it. Our correspondents in Erebor will be bringing you a detailed overview of the upcoming elections, as well as the subtly changing economical climate_ _-_ ”

Bilbo frowns at that last notion, and the King rolls his eyes.

“The Americans are absolutely convinced that the EU's bureaucratic scandals are bound to swipe us off our feet any second now,” he notes, “best leave them to their illusions.”

“And Smaug Bundushar?” Bilbo asks carefully.

“What about him?”

“Well, I mean, the Americans certainly seem to think he's worth some attention.”

'Perhaps,” Thorin sighs, “but that's what he's always been after. Attention. And I'm not willing to give him any just to make him feel at home again, not right now. I don't know if you've heard the story, but he was quite the big fish before the revolution, then disappeared for... whatever reason. I can't say that I missed him. As long as he doesn't interfere with the public the way he used to, I'm not going to waste my time with him.”

Bilbo knows some parts of the story, about how Smaug and his affiliates organized rallies and demonstrations leading directly to the revolution itself, about how they spoke out against the crown. 'Exercising their civil rights', as one or two articles put it, he remembers. The Crown publicly asked the Moria Conglomerate for financial aid, and received none, and some vitriol to top it off – they used the monarchy's increasing weakness and started turning the public against it, instead of offering the much needed support, but when it became obvious the Crown was not going anywhere, they immediately started playing nice. That's about the gist of it as far as Bilbo understands, and it's not a particularly nice story. 

He can't help himself, he steals glances at the King's face, deeply troubled behind the facade of regal calm, and then he remembers the other reason he came here.

“Fili's movie screening was yesterday,” he says cheerfully, and Thorin's face falls almost imperceptibly.

“Oh, of course. How was it?”

“Absolutely brilliant! I brought a copy for you,” Bilbo announces, rummaging through his satchel in search for the CD, “I certainly recommend it, if only to take your mind off... all this. Here.”

His Majesty turns it over in his fingers for a moment, the faintest hint of smile quirking his lips, and then he looks at Bilbo with some indiscernible intensity.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, “I think I'll watch it right now, in fact. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

Bilbo opens his mouth, but shuts it again, simply nodding. A glass of wine. ...Right. Not that his head always starts spinning after a couple of sips, or anything. He watches a bit helplessly as the King pours them the drink, before it occurs to him to actually put the CD into the video player himself, fortunately managing to figure it all out and not making a complete fool of himself. His Majesty is waiting for him on the sofa, offering him his tall glass, and... oh, that is not an idea he should turn over in his head for too long.

They toast cordially, and Bilbo takes a longer, deeper gulp than he probably should, but thankfully the wine is delicious, and obviously dangerously sweet. They watch the movie side by side, and it doesn't fail to amuse Bilbo even for the second time, but frankly, he's more interested in the King's reaction – he risks a couple of glances, and if the tender look in his eyes and the soft chuckling are any indication, Bilbo did a good thing bringing him the copy.

“Impressive,” Thorin laughs when the movie, not longer that twelve or fifteen minutes, concludes, “well done, Professor.”

“Oh, I hardly had anything to do with it,” Bilbo mumbles, “all the kids' work. I simply made sure they didn't get carried away with all that magic.”

“I'm sure,” the King smiles, “but I meant that as a more of a... general well done. And thank you.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, his gaze flickering away from the King and into his own glass, watching the red liquid swirl and only hoping his cheeks aren't swiftly turning the same color, “it, it was my pleasure. _Is_ my pleasure.”

He finishes the drink in one long gulp, managing by some miracle not to choke on it, feeling suddenly anxious and lightheaded, which really is a dangerous mood to be in around the King, he's learned over time.

“Well then,” he declares, “Shall I tell the boys you liked it?”

“Please,” Thorin nods, still watching him somewhat expectantly, all but scrutinizing him in fact, which Bilbo really cannot take.

“Alright,” he says firmly, standing up, “I, erm... thank you for the wine.”

“And thank you for the distraction,” the King replies simply, Bilbo's eyes widening a bit as he stretches his arms, his knuckles cracking faintly as he upturns his palms, fingers entwined together.

That's just _so_ not fair.

“Good... good night, Your Majesty.”

“Good night, Professor.”

 

And that night before falling asleep, incapable of thinking about anything much but the King and his tired eyes, an idea worms his way into Bilbo's head, and he has enough wits about him to recognize that he's doomed, of course he is, once he's decided. Which is why he gives it time – there's the birthday party to plan, after all, which is a wonderful distraction.

He and Balin come up with the plan, Bilbo utterly overjoyed when he's allowed to hold it outside in that part of the garden him and the boys are so fond of, with the old playground and the perfect spot for the tables and everything. Bombur and Mirjam promise to take care of the catering, and it's up to Bilbo and Kili to decide who they want to invite. The boy isn't in need of a particularly fancy, large party, thank God, and so he only brings a couple of his classmates, as well as the Prime Minister's two children, and Fili is 'allowed' to bring Ori. For some reason, Kili wants some of the staff members to be there, namely his piano teacher and his riding instructor, and Bofur, and even Balin – all of them agree eagerly, of course.

The weather is fortunately absolutely perfect the day of the party, and Bilbo leaves the preparations in the best part, trusting Balin and his army of maids to take care of everything, driving into town to pick up the birthday boy and his brother, and... well, the look on Kili's face when he walks into that garden, with the tables laden with food, and the colorful balloons and ribbons tied to the lowest branches of the trees, is the best reward for all of Bilbo's hard work, really. Receiving a pointed party hat just like everyone else, Kili assumes his seat at the head of the largest table, and proceeds to greet everyone in his adorably serious tone. The King is there as well, of course, wearing an uncharacteristically casual and becoming ensemble of a light shirt and jeans, and he laughs along with everyone else at his nephew's frantic up-and-down bobbing as he waits for the cake to be wheeled in, and cheers when the boy's mouth all but hangs agape.

Bilbo commissioned the cake at a confectioner's in town that Bombur had recommended, and it really is a splendid creation, blue and green and red, reading 'Happy 8th Birthday, Kili!' in Khuzdul, and all in all, Bilbo is equally impressed as he is pleased. The time for gifts comes then, and Bilbo is convinced the boy would be excited plenty if he got just all those chocolates alone – but there is a collection of various board games, books, a football (apparently signed by this or that famous player, as Bofur, the one behind the gift, explains to Bilbo), and even a new bicycle, and of course the beautiful gift from Fili, which is a painting of Kili's favorite race track cut into puzzle pieces. But in the end, the biggest hit is Thorin's gift, which he fishes out out of nowhere – or, to be exact, it crawls out of nowhere.

It's a kitten, a tiny tabby with a blue bow around its neck, and all of Bilbo's prejudices about giving animals to little children as gifts evaporate the second Kili lays his eyes on it, exclaiming in what can only be described as sheer, unadulterated joy, taking it in his hands ever so gingerly as Thorin kneels to him. Kili cuddles the kitty to his face and to his immense joy, it starts licking his fingers – he doesn't let go of it for the rest of the party, only ever letting Bilbo look after it when the children go kick the ball around and play tag after the feast, the adults obviously slowing down after the meal, scattering in the garden with their drinks. 

Bilbo nurses the sleeping tabby in his lap, waiting for his allergy to kick in, when the King joins him, his 'I hope you're not allergic' making Bilbo laugh very earnestly.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he grins, and for a second, His Majesty looks positively mortified.

“I didn't know,” he says, “if I'd known, I would have gotten him-”

“What, an iguana?” Bilbo chuckles, “it's alright, I'm sure I'll manage. It's a wonderful gift, really, Your Majesty.”

“It's a wonderful party.”

They exchange a smile, and Bilbo is suddenly in need of a drink to remedy his dry throat.

“I'm really glad you could be here,” he offers, “the boys-”

But he's cut off by what could only be one thing – the distant rumble of thunder. They look at the sky, and see dark clouds approaching above the farthest treetops.

“Coming from the mountains,” the King remarks, “I don't know if anyone warned you, but summer storms like this are very common during these months.”

“Oh no,” Bilbo sighs, “I didn't know, that's such a shame...”

“It'll still be an hour or so before it reaches us,” Thorin says, “but we'd better save what we can.”

The pile of gifts is slowly removed and stored safely inside the Palace, and the children calmed down, in the end eagerly helping with carrying the trays upon trays of food into the dining room. The wind picks up sooner than expected, and the kids exclaim in excitement as they run around the garden chasing the stray balloons, while the adults move the tables into the large summer house, and when it starts raining, _definitely_ sooner than expected, everything descends into utter chaos.

The kids are ushered inside, trying for some reason to grab as many balloons as humanly possible and slowing down the whole process, while the very last of the chairs and tables are removed from the garden. Bilbo feels his shirt already soaking on his shoulders as he grins at Bofur, grabbing the last table with him, just when a massive waft of wind lifts the cloth off it and carries it away almost impossibly quickly.

“I've got it!” Bofur exclaims, dashing after it, and the King assumes his place.

Together, Bilbo and him put the table inside the already overflowing summer house along with the others, and just when His Majesty says 'Ready to make a run for it?', the frail roof above their heads starts vibrating under the unmistakable tapping of hailstone.

“Maybe not,” Bilbo laughs, coming to stand by Thorin's side in the doorway, the white balls of ice, not by any means tiny, sprinkling the grass.

“Somewhat,” the King snickers.

They hear the faint laughter of the children from the Palace, and see that Bofur is sprinting over the vast lawn, dragging the escaped table-cloth behind, trying to cover his head and waving his hands around theatrically, yelling unintelligibly. 

“Well, I'm not doing _that,_ ” Bilbo remarks, and Thorin laughs.

“Me neither. It should pass in a couple of minutes,” he says, raking his hand through his hair, and Bilbo sees that it's as wet as his, his shirt soaked as well, and somehow, the sight is suddenly really hilarious, along with the whole situation.

“What a party,” he pfft's, and the King chuckles, leaning against the door frame.

They see Kili waving at them, shouting something they can't really hear, and they simply wave back, assuring him that they're alright, and then Thorin feels the need to grant Bilbo the most piercing look imaginable.

“Thank you for all of this,” he says, and Bilbo doesn't think he will ever get used to His Majesty being this grateful all the time.

“It's... no problem, really, I enjoyed helping, and... Fili's birthday is coming up soon, isn't it?”

“It is,” Thorin smiles, but never stops looking at Bilbo, as if he's searching for something in his face.

“I just hope you're giving yourself enough credit, Professor,” he adds quietly, and Bilbo's eyes widen, and he tries to find but a hint of sarcasm in that statement, but fails.

“I, erm...” he manages.

“Though it might not always seem like it, you are... you're invaluable here. Now,” His Majesty continues, and Bilbo doesn't even attempt to conceal his mute wonder, merely gapes at him as he sighs, “after everything you've done, we... I...”

Bilbo's mouth all but hangs agape, his heart tolling like a bell, because he's... well, quite sure the King is trying to tell him something, but of course it's cut off by His Majesty's phone buzzing. Thorin's eyes widen, and his features contort in momentary confusion, as if he can't quite believe he'd be so rudely interrupted, but then he scowls, visibly displeased, fumbling for the mobile, shooting Bilbo an apologetic look, to which he responds by a smile and a shrug, even though he's quite sure he should be a tad unhappy himself, because they just missed their chance at... something.

“ _Kulhu hanakun_ _?_ ” His Majesty demands curtly, his eyes still glued to Bilbo, who turns away promptly, seeing that the hail is receding now.

“ _Kulhu_ _?_ ” the King all but hisses, audibly surprised, and then Bilbo hears nothing but a stream of curt Khuzdul, of which he doesn't understand much.

He gives His Majesty his space, standing as far away from him on the summer house's tiny veranda as he can without being bombarded with the hail, and only ever risks looking at him when he hears the name 'Smaug Bundushar' being mentioned. He sees that the King is frowning menacingly now, obviously displeased, and he ends the call after some more time almost angrily, muttering a curt 'I'm sorry for that'.

And Bilbo feels sorry for him. He cannot do otherwise, the sight of him marching across the lawn the second there is nothing but rain falling from the sky, and assuring his nephews that he's fine, but excusing himself and striding away, is somehow the most miserable thing Bilbo has seen in a while. He's sure it's not Thorin's fault – he _knows_ it's not his fault, which makes matters even worse. He really did seem genuinely glad to find the time to be at the party, and Bilbo is sure that the content of the call must have ruined it all for him, and...

Well, perhaps he's in way over his head. Wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps he's not thinking straight, and perhaps he's plunging headfirst into something that will cost him dearly, but he doesn't really care. No, all that matters is that he might be able to help the King. Somehow. Who knows. He thinks he must try.

Which is why he picks up the phone that night feeling already perfectly determined – not really knowing if he's doing the right thing, but how does one tell, really? Bard Ibindikhel answers almost immediately.

“ _Medrûnat._ ”

“Ah, erm... _shamukh._ It's Bilbo Baggins.”

“Oh, Professor! I'm glad you're calling. Have you-”

“Yes, I've thought about it,” Bilbo interrupts him anxiously, “and at the risk of sounding like I stepped out of some silly movie... I'm in. I'd like to help.”

* * *

**Dictionary:**   


_Bundushar_ \- “Head in Smoke”

_Dush akhûnîth_ \- dark children

_Ghelekhmez_ \- Well done

_Kulhu hanakun?_ \- What’s happening?

_Kulhûn_ \- When

_Medrûnat_ \- Go ahead

_Shândi_ \- I understand

_Sugùl ma_ \- Of course

_Umlhakh_ \- Your Majesty

_Yâdùshun_ \- You’re welcome

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well, won't you look at the plot thickening. Rather messily in my opinion. Also, I've included a short dictionary at the end of each chapter, yay! Thank you so much for your continuous support, guys :') The next chapter is going to be a special treat!


	9. Chapter 9

He has not visited his sister's grave since she was buried. It's not a matter of choice, certainly not – he hasn't had a spare moment ever since the whole thing exploded, metaphorically or otherwise. The phone is always ringing, Dain is always visiting, the Senate is always meeting. It's no use. Sometimes, he thinks of what Dís would say, and knows that her scolding him to no end would be a distinct possibility. She was always like that, fierce and loud, never worried about what came out of her mouth.

“You should rule this country, you know,” he'd tell her, and she'd laugh heartily.

“If you'd like it to go up in flames, sure.”

She was a forest fire all on her own. Quick, ruthless and unstoppable; bright and warm, as far as intimidating forces of nature go. When she was around, no one ever questioned why the young King wasn't married. He already had a Queen by his side. And that she was – the Crown was nothing without her. She was the one with the most appealing public image, the one who knew how to talk to masses, the one who knew how to talk to _him,_ and make sure he was steady on his feet, and kept the whole larger-than-life circus going.

They were both equally weakened by the revolution, but they clutched onto each other, and marched on – she turned her grief into sheer unadulterated power and passion, throwing herself into charity work, and traveling, and sponsoring this and that, just to be out there, in the world, to 'kick-start the betterment of the Crown's media image', as the news would call it. And he concentrated on the less pleasant work, on endless hours in Senate, and abroad, and in meetings, making sure the monarchy had good, solid foundations to build upon once again.

As much as they'd both loved their grandfather, he left the country in the worst possible state – with their father gone as well, they only had each other. And they managed. They fixed it all, by some miracle. Dís would brush her fingers across his cheek the same way their mother used to, ' _It's you, it's all you,_ ' she would tell him, but they both knew Thorin was nothing if he didn't have her.

When she gave birth to Kili, it had been three years since Azanulbizar, and the country was just learning to breathe again, as was its King.

“This is it,” she told him, hair still tousled, skin almost paler than her hospital gown, but her eyes gleaming brighter than ever, “this is all you have now. We're doing this for them – if Fili is to be King, he'll have a country worth living in, do you understand?”

She never pushed him. She always understood. She always laughed at the idea of him marrying a woman just because 'people will start talking eventually'.

“People are already talking, Thorin,” she would grin, and pat his shoulder when he went just a little bit paler, “they always have, and they always will. As far as you're concerned, the throne has an heir, and you can tell them I ordered you to never marry because I'm power-thirsty, or something. I don't care.”

_This country is ours, and it will respond to our needs. You and I have the power to change everything, because it needs changing, and because if we don't, at least one of us will be unhappy. I love you, brother._ _Z_ _âzyungizu_ _._

She was right about many things, and wrong about many others, but as long as she was there, Thorin's own foundations were unshakeable; she was his rock. When Frerin died, he didn't want to talk about him, or think about him overmuch, for that matter, but Dís wouldn't stop reminding him, every day, forcing him to remember all the good things the three of them had been through – she cried, and she grieved, but she saw no point in acting like their baby brother never existed. _Our pain is the one and only proof he was ever here at all,_ or something.

When she died, there was no one to remind Thorin. It was just a phone call, someone hurrying to his side in the middle of a court hearing, and he will marvel for the rest of his life about how literally everything he ever knew could go crumbling down within seconds. He remembers standing in a vast empty hallway, the ceiling suddenly entirely too high, the silence entirely too suffocating, and his lungs refused to work for a good long while, and so did his heart. But he did what always did best – he worked. Made calls. Made sure the boys were safe, and away from any source of news. The boys...

Ever since that day, all he saw in Fili was his own little brother, the golden mane of wavy hair and the easy grin, and Kili's eyes were the exact same as Dís' – Thorin knew he had to protect them at all costs, but he was also afraid that if he looked directly at them, his heart would be torn asunder. But his grief was his own, and it was nontransferable – he locked it within himself like a lead weight, and kept going, because he was good at that, marching forward even when his legs were threatening to give way and the path was all but invisible. He kept going, and only ever allowed his weakness to overpower him when he was alone, when there was no one there to try and comfort him – no one besides Dís ever knew how to, anyway. 

 

A soft hand on his shoulder wakes him at least twice a week nowadays. His back announces itself painfully as he leans back in his chair, dragging his hands down his face and searching for his glasses to discern the damage to the documents he managed to fall asleep on.

“Don't look at me like that, Deidre, it's just tax reports,” he mumbles, and she tsk-tsks.

“That's an improvement over the, what was it, legal claims last week?” she offers dryly, “here's your tea.”

“ _Âkmînruk_ _zu._ ”

“You're not welcome. Look at you,” she sighs, “you look like a walking corpse.”

“Who says I'm not?” he smiles curtly, and she snorts, shaking her head.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Deidre, please.”

“I know for a fact that you skipped lunch. The boys asked after you.”

“...They did?”

“Kili needs something signed for school,” she shrugs, tidying his desk in quick, calculated movements, “Fili's just angry about the governess again.”

“Of course he is,” Thorin sighs, “I'll tell Balin to send her up.”

She opens her mouth to say some more, but shuts it again, the worried wrinkles fanning out around her eyes pronouncing.

“What is it?” he demands, and she shakes her head, thin-lipped.

She's grown so much older, he realizes. It's not so long ago that her hair wasn't completely white, is it? She's always had a limp, something that Thorin and his siblings would often take advantage of when they were children, but it seems to be troubling her more now, he observes as she goes about adjusting the window drapes. Her hands are shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Deidre, do you want a holiday?” he sighs, and she freezes for a fleeting second, but then she laughs.

“I'm not the one who needs a holiday,” she notes, her back still turned to him.

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

And that's how it's always been. She is the only one who refuses to budge when he presses, and he knows he's lucky to have her. They thought once that she would leave when the Queen died, but 'My work here is never finished' is what she said, Thorin believes. Deidre rules the maids with precision and an iron fist, and is the only one to scold Thorin these days, and he doesn't really want to think about not seeing her kind, round face at least once a day.

Though he thinks he deserves to be spared the remarks he receives from her when he makes no attempt to keep the boys' governess, accepting her immediate resignation later that week without much ado.

“It's a vicious circle,” she all but waggles her finger at him when they're discussing the matter with Balin, “and it's ridiculous.”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Thorin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and she mutters under her breath all the way out of the office.

“Please tell me you've found someone,” Thorin mumbles in a rare display of exasperation, and to his immense relief, Balin smiles shortly.

“Somewhat.”

“Not my favorite response, Balin.”

“...Doctor Grey answered.”

Thorin leans back in his chair, allowing himself a split second of faint hope.

“...And?”

“And he's confident he can get someone special on a rather short notice,” Balin replies, “his words, not mine.”

“That could mean any number of things.”

“Agreed. He's asking you to trust him.”

“Of course he is,” Thorin smirks.

“...Well?” Balin raises his eyebrows.

“Well what?”

“Will you? Trust him, I mean.”

Thorin sighs, stretching his arms and neck, joints cracking. Mahal, he really needs to go to bed earlier today.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not particularly, no. He's saying the person could arrive within two weeks, if everything goes according to plan.”

“Any specifics about her?”

“It's a him, apparently,” Balin adjusts his glasses somewhat nervously, “Englishman. An old friend of the Doctor's, I'm given to understand. A teacher, I think. The name escapes me now.”

“Hmm,” Thorin sighs noncommittally, expertly suppressing a yawn, “well then, we'll see if he lasts any longer than the others.”

 

...And he's not quite sure at what point he begins to _want him_ to last. Professor Baggins is absolutely infuriating, that's for sure, but other than that, he only ever manages to confuse Thorin. From their very first meeting, the man is brash, bordering on outright rude, but there's something about him... His inability to keep his mouth shut even when it's absolutely required reminds Thorin of both his late siblings so much he wants to get rid of him immediately at first. But Fili and Kili take a great liking to him from day one, and watching it makes Thorin's heart ache, but it's also an immense relief.

But _by god_ is the man more trouble than he's worth. He has absolutely no regard for any sort of protocol, and Thorin is convinced he suffers from the unfortunate need to always be right. But his initial draft of Fili's new schedule alone gives Thorin pause – it's expertly done, detailed and well thought through, and the subjects actually make sense for once. The required daily reports are clear and no-nonsense as well, with no unnecessary comments, which Thorin can appreciate immensely.

All of that lasts for about the blink of an eye, of course. Not a week after the Professor's arrival, Thorin's all but ready to fire him, is actually absolutely _certain_ he's going to do so the second he sees him and Fili out of the window of his limousine as the main driveway's gravel crunches under its wheels. The two are striding leisurely to the Palace, chatting easily, and Thorin swallows the indiscernible pinch of jealousy in favor of the building anger, because he certainly did not authorize any walks in the middle – he checks his watch quickly – yes, in the middle of Fili's lessons.

They end up shouting, and Fili ends up running away – not the first time, and certainly not the last, Thorin accepts grimly. Professor Baggins looks utterly disgusted at the idea of leaving Fili to his own makings for a while to cool off, and that's the first time Thorin ponders telling him – that the boy has barely spoken about his feelings to anyone, Balin, Deidre or one of the numerous governesses, since his mother died, and he's sure as hell not going to start now. That his evasion strategies include hiding for hours, and not coming to lunch when he knows his Uncle will be there, and skipping his fencing lessons whenever he can, and _good luck with that, Professor._

But Fili quickly becomes the least of his worries, because Azog Karkâl makes his big move - Thorin feels very strongly like punching something when he sees him first on television, talking about  _change,_ and  _new horizons,_ and  _the need for quick resolutions,_ and he spends what might be a week or a year utterly distracted while his media team set up the debate and prepare his topics.

Deidre says nothing, merely brings him his usual cups of coffee when needed, graciously deciding not comment at the rising frequency with which Thorin requires them.

“Fili tried to skip his riding lesson yesterday,” she offers matter-of-factly one especially stressful afternoon, that kind with infuriatingly beautiful weather outside and too many documents to be read and not enough time, and Thorin simply sighs.

“Did they find him in time?”

“Oh, he didn't try to hide,” Deidre explains, “no, I understand he showed up at Mister Bilbo's door and wanted to hide there, but Bilbo persuaded him to go. Went with him, too, made him apologize to the instructor.”

Thorin knows her far too well – she says it all calmly, but is waiting for his reaction. He sighs again.

“Wonderful,” he says dryly.

“It _is_ wonderful,” she turns at him, frowning, crossing her arms over her chest, “Fili refused to even speak to all those previous governesses, remember? Much less listen to them. I'm telling you, there's something about that Professor Baggins. Just don't fire him in a fit of righteous fury.”

Thorin scoffs at her.

“It's up to him not to give me a reason to get righteously furious,” he remarks, and she rolls her eyes, but says no more.

 

And Thorin is... well, if not intrigued, then certainly slightly swayed. He asks Fili about the incident later that day during their Maths lesson, carefully, knowing that one wrong word can make his nephew refuse to communicate altogether.

“Will Bilbo be in trouble?” Fili asks surprisingly earnestly when Thorin inquires about why he tried to go hide in his apartment.

“...No.”

Fili measures him intensely, and Thorin knows he's reached their daily limit of normal communication. He's long since learned not to cross that line – there are far too many misunderstandings now between him and the boy, far too many occasions of Thorin making him cry, to try and push it. He's just grateful the boy remains quiet throughout the rest of the lesson, scribbling obediently. But he is quiet – quieter than usual, ever since the incident, and Thorin's rational side is telling him he's the one to start speaking first, but it's been too long. He's forgotten how to.

Dís would be the one to tell Fili when it was alright to come barging in into his Uncle's office and try to pull him out of his rut by forcing him to have lunch with them. She was the one to put Kili in Thorin's arms, teaching him how to hold the infant, and then when he was older, she arranged his piano recitals so that Thorin would have the time to be there. She would literally force Thorin to socialize with his nephews, because she knew it was good for him, and laughed at the reverence in their eyes as they regarded him, telling them that their Uncle might be King, but he certainly doesn't deserve all that much awe. Dís was the one who knew how to make Thorin laugh, and how to make him laugh _with_ the boys, and without her, his bond with them got twisted and broken beyond repair in a matter of days, it seems. 

He knows he's failed her – she would be so disappointed to see what he saw earlier that week, Fili's eyes all but brimming with tears as he turned away from Thorin yet again, running away. But they're safe, he tells himself, they're safe and that's all that matters. And if he firmly decides not to dwell on the matter of their (and his) actual happiness for too long for the sake of his own sanity, well then, no one can really blame him.

And then (not for the first time, and very definitely not for the last, he expects) Professor Baggins takes him by surprise and makes him reconsider. It's late at night when Thorin discovers the man in the hallway leading up to his own quarters, and he's very obviously lost, and even more obviously tipsy, but he talks about Fili's lessons with a passion Thorin doesn't think he can handle, and a part of him is angry at him, because he only came a couple of weeks ago, and he knows nothing, and yet he acts like change is so easy. Thorin very honestly dislikes him for making him believe it as well, and he's not quite sure how, but the Professor eventually convinces him to readjust Fili's lessons, and even let him take the boy outside every now and then, which is... He's still not entirely sure why or how he agreed to all that.

They spend almost an hour coming up with a new schedule, and Thorin watches the man with some sort of newfound interest – the messy blond mane and large glasses, and that distinctly unprofessional combination of a cardigan with a polka-dotted shirt he insists on wearing so often – and realizes that if he ever came across a real enigma, Professor Baggins is it. He's not entirely sure how to treat him, or whether to trust him at all, and it's... disconcerting. He takes some time out of his packed schedule to read up on his academical career, but it doesn't shed any light on the man's peculiar determination and brash wit – Thorin decides he's going to have to inquire about all that with Doctor Grey the next time he sees him.

Everything of course becomes utterly redundant with the next stunt the Professor pulls – Thorin is determined it's his last one. He's set to leave for Gundabad for the opening of this or that, and the adjacent press junket, but it all blows up in their faces, and he returns home about a day too early, which is all well and good, since it means a lot of unexpected free time. But seemingly seconds after he sets foot in the Palace, he learns that the boys are out, both of them.

The dread that he feels for that one split second is utterly paralyzing – it takes him a while longer to do with it as he always does, which is to transmute it into anger. How dare he?! This is so far beyond the Professor's understanding, and very definitely beyond the realm of the antics Thorin has been allowing him. Does he even understand...? Of course not, Thorin realizes, breathing through his rage in his office as he waits for Balin to sort things out. Professor Baggins probably thinks he's doing what's _best for the boys._ As if he has any clue whatsoever about that. As if he understands what they've all been through. 

Thorin tries his very best not to reminisce, and fails epically. Frerin had been much older than either Fili and Kili, of course, but still a child, still reckless, still put in entirely too much danger, and not by his fault. _It's not the same,_ Thorin forces himself to decide, _it's not the same, the streets are safe, the city is safe, you_ made it _safe, so that nothing like that could ever happen again._ It's been ten years, but it feels like yesterday. Letting his little brother out of sight for a couple of hours in the midst of the revolution lead to his death, and _it was an accident, you know it was, you couldn't have known._ That's what Dís would say – that's what she did say, in fact, over and over again until Thorin decided to believe it.

It was the last straw for their father, though, and Thorin is still not entirely sure how they ever survived losing Thrain so shortly after Frerin and their grandfather. Relentlessness. Yes, that was it. The public was shocked, and it sympathized with the Crown for once, and it allowed them to turn the tide in their favor, swiftly and ruthlessly because that was the only way. Too much violence, too much bloodshed, for a country at the beginning of a millennium – they had to act fast if they didn't want to face foreign intervention.

Thorin still shudders thinking about it – Erebor was this close to falling, collapsing in on itself like a poorly built house of cards. _All gone now,_ he tells himself, _all gone. We did build a safer country for the boys to live in, after all._ Fili was barely three years old when all of that happened, and Thorin saw it in Dís' eyes, the determination with which she would pull Erebor towards the light for her son, with her bare hands if need be. The following years were those of hope and new beginnings, and Thorin's and Dís' greatest achievement was making a nation forget the horrors it had been through. Making _themselves_ forget.

Of course, Professor Baggins doesn't know any of that, and as far as Thorin is concerned, he's not going to be the one to tell him. By the time the man is ushered into his office, his fury has receded into a freezing cold dismissal, and he listens to the him talk about how the boys had ' _the time of their life_ ' with an icy detachment, already prepared for yet another failure on the front of the Princes' governesses and tutors. 

But nothing, it seems, can prepare him for the boys themselves coming to the Professor's aid. All air is knocked out of Thorin's lungs at the sight of Kili dashing into the office, eyes large and frightened, exclaiming about how Thorin mustn't fire Bilbo, ' _please,_ _Indâd,_ _please'_ , and Fili standing by his side, jaw set tight, a defiant glare.

“ _Promise me_ you won't fire him,” Fili all but growls, and Thorin is suddenly short of breath, nothing but hostility in his nephew's look and words alike, and his pain must show in his own eyes, because the Professor says firmly: “Boys, _that's enough._ Go back to your quarters now. I'll find you later. _I'm serious._ ”

The way in which they respond, listening and retreating obediently, only serves to deepen Thorin's suffering, but Fili's gaze is still locked with his, and so he offers sternly: “Manners, Fili,” and when the boy scoffs, he adds in Khuzdul, so that it's only between him and his nephew, “think of your mother.”

It pains him to say it, and it very obviously pains Fili to hear it, and Thorin's heartbeat rings hollow in his ears as he watches the boy's eyes well with tears, and his gut clenches at the somewhat expected, but still horribly painful 'I hate you.'. Then the boys disappear as fast as they came, and the Professor lingers, but Thorin feels himself losing all energy, barely capable of crossing the room and pouring himself a generous portion of whiskey. He dismisses Mister Baggins sternly, shoulders sagging the second the man leaves his office, and he sinks into his armchair heavily, closing his eyes for a good long while to will away the bitterness.

“I don't want to hear it,” he breathes out when the door opens again after what might be hours, and Deidre wanders in, frowning.

Defensively, he bends over his table, beginning to fill out some of the forms he's been neglecting, and she prepares him his coffee wordlessly, but very obviously displeased.

“Did you even-” she starts, but he cuts her off immediately.

“Stop it.”

“I'm just saying-”

“I don't care.”

“But Bilbo only did what-”

“What?” Thorin growls, leaning back in his chair as she glares at him, bewildered “what he thought was best? Oh, I'm sure. I'm sure he's an expert at that. He comes out of nowhere with his, his timetables and exciting new subjects, and parenting advice...”

“You're not their parent.”

“Yes, I've heard that before, thank you!” he exclaims entirely too loudly, her eyes widening.

He buries his face in his hands, exhaling raggedly and groaning in exasperation. His back suddenly aches, and he really feels like another drink.

“...I'm sorry,” he mutters, muffled and weak, rubbing his eyes, “sorry.”

He half expects her to lay a hand on his shoulder, hopes for it in fact, but she simply stands there when he braves looking up, arms crossed over her chest, glaring.

“This is not about you,” she says simply, dryly, “or him. It's about the boys – you're losing them.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but shuts it again, incapable of it on account of his gut twisting desperately. 

“They're kids,” she continues simply, firmly, “they won't forget, or move on, or forgive you just like that. Every single time you hurt them, they'll remember. Keep going, and you'll lose them for good.”

“I don't...” he tries, his voice failing him, “...I don't know what to do.”

Her eyes do soften at that, at last, and she sighs profoundly.

“Well, go and apologize to them, for starters,” she beckons him, “...go.”

“...Right now?”

“When else?” she retorts sharply, “this is not a court hearing, you don't wait around for the important decisions to be made for you, for crying out loud.”

“I...”

“ _Buzun_ _._ Go now or I swear to Mahal I _will_ smack you.”

 

And so he goes, but of course, _of course_ Professor Baggins is in the way, and then the dread returns when he learns that Fili is missing, and he finds himself outside seemingly in a matter of seconds, marching into the darkness of the park, and beyond his fear for his nephew, he manages to grasp the ridiculousness of this – he hasn't been on the grounds properly in what might be months, and the air carries the heavy scent of all the blooming trees and bushes, and he's still wearing his suit he was going to talk to the journalists in, and it's all so very surreal.

“I know where he is,” Professor Baggins exhales then after a while of aimless wandering and shouting Fili's name, “the graveyard.”

Thorin's heart leaps in his chest, and for a good while, he ponders just leaving – out of all the possible scenarios in which he'd visit Dís grave at last, this one certainly never came to mind. He's outright frightened, but he swallows it, concentrates on the worry for his nephew, and marches on, his heart hammering a thousand beats a minute.

It's been a very long time since something has gotten to him as much as the sight of Fili crumpled on the ground by his parents' simple gravestone, his shoulders shaking, and he knows then, knows that he has to end it now, can't let the boy (or himself) suffer like this anymore.

“Kindly,” the Professor sighs before they approach the boy, but Thorin doesn't need reminding, not now, not ever again.

He merely waits for his turn to speak as Bilbo assesses the damage to Fili's ankle, and when he finally does, it feels like his lungs are finally pumping properly, for the first time in ages.

“ _Akhûnith_ ,”he breathes out, not daring to reach out and touch Fili just yet, “listen. Just listen to me, please. Forgive me, _ghivashuh_ , please forgive me. I've been such a fool. I'm so sorry for what I said to you...”

He only finds the right words with much hardship at first, and Fili's face remains buried in the Professor's arm, but his sobbing ceases, slowly, and Thorin knows this is the right... no, this is the only way, the only chance he will ever get to fix things.

“Your mother would just destroy me if she were here, can you imagine?” he offers, chuckling softly, and Fili just sniffs, so he adds, still in Khuzdul, confident that Mister Baggins will understand the need for it, “she was the smart one, you see. Did you know she would smack me over the head at least five times every day just to keep me going? She was a brilliant woman, your Mum. ...Fili,” he sighs, and braves reaching out, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder gingerly, “I'm so sorry. I really am. If you... if you want, we'll find a school for you to go to in no time, alright? All this time, I've been trying to keep you safe here, but you're not a little baby anymore.”

The boy disentangles himself from the Professor's arms slowly, sitting up a little, ducking his head and wringing his hands in his laps, but nodding slightly when Thorin asks gently, “Would you like that? No more lessons with me at eight in the morning, I promise. ...What do you think?”

In the meantime, Professor Baggins takes the hint and goes about removing the boy's shoe ever so carefully, and Fili whimpers, but braves it all excellently.

“Can we go home now?” Thorin asks him softly, and he nods, a pouting lip, tears still in his eyes, but he brushes all of that off the next second, running the back of his hand over his face.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, “can I go to bed now?”

Thorin mirrors Bilbo's relieved chuckle, and when the boy stands up and they realize he can't walk on his own, and he accepts Thorin's outstretched arms, he can't help it, the relief brings tears to his eyes as well. He blinks them away swiftly, burying his nose in his nephew's curls and granting one last glance to Dís' gravestone, simple and solemn, before he asks the Professor to fish his phone out of his pocket and alert Dwalin _._

And perhaps it's then, after Oin inspects Fili's injury and bandages it, and Thorin wanders up into the boys' quarters and sees the Professor reading to them, Kili in his lap and Fili bundled in his blankets, that he begins to feel... something. The gratitude is unexpected, but he relays it nevertheless, and Professor Baggins seems as taken aback as Thorin himself is.

“For some reason, you possess the ability to make me change my mind very quickly,” he tells the man, and it's true, almost worryingly so.

When Fili asks him, a couple of days later, 'But will you have to fire Bilbo if I go to school?', such urgency in the question, he still doesn't know why he's so sure he won't. _Professor Baggins isn't going anywhere,_ he says, and the boys are obviously overjoyed, and Thorin accepts it at last – that the man is so much better at dealing with them, handling them, listening to them, than he himself will ever be, but... that's alright. Perhaps, with him around, he might learn, get better in time. Perhaps there's still some chance for the recovery of his relationship with the boys, and perhaps putting his trust in the peculiar, short, infuriating Englishman might be one of Thorin's better decisions of late.

 

Besides, he needs to worry about so much more now – the first of a long line of debates comes up entirely too soon for his tastes. He's as ready as he will ever be, and yet, he's so infinitely displeased to even be in the same room as Azog Karkâl – the man is as disgustingly boisterous as ever, and Thorin struggles to keep his temper in check.

Karkâl obviously makes it his mission to rile him up, but he won't stand for it – the man is a businessman, not a politician, and as long as Thorin has any say in the matter, he won't be making any of his far-fetched, preposterous declarations a reality. He has some undeniable support with the families of the people the Moria Conglomerate employs, but Thorin is confident Dain will succeed at upholding his post. There's more to his cousin than meets the eye, and Thorin can't wait for him to take Karkâl down a notch. He himself must concentrate on the other candidates requesting debates left and right, forgetting Karkâl's talk of how the country is _his,_ and how _the time for change is now._ If Thorin is confident in anything, it's that Erebor is on the right path, and nothing can sway it from it, not the EU with its unceasing pressure regarding the fiscal union, not any number of loud and brash would-be politicians, not even old enemies returning.

He learns of Smaug Bundushar's homecoming shortly before the Royal Gala, and very firmly decides to pay it no mind – his sources tell him Bundushar has no interest in taking part in the upcoming celebrations or elections in any way, which makes him the least of Thorin's worries, fortunately. He allows himself the luxury of forgetting about him for now, since he only ever manages to bring back memories of the revolution, and those are neither wanted nor needed right now. Everything is going well, after all.

Everything is going extremely well, in fact, the undertakings of Mister Baggins and Thorin's nephews included. He sees only very little of either of them, and for the first time in ages, it doesn't feel like a blessing in disguise. Before, he never really knew how to approach the boys, take interest in them without alienating them. Now, he feels that he wants to try, and the lack of time for it is... displeasing. 

Professor Baggins finds a school for Fili in a matter of days, and Thorin feels almost unhappy when he declares his daily reports on the boy's activities canceled until further notice – he enjoyed reading them, he'll admit as much. Short and informative, and yet, somehow, managing to relay both the teacher's and his pupil's interest in each other and the subjects – the Professor would take it upon himself to write a short personal note at the end every single time, marveling at Fili's attention, or improvements in pronunciation, or, on occasion, rather sarcastically, on his inability to stay still. The Professor was always completely honest, never omitting but one of Fili's outbursts of anger, or any of the times he tried to hide, or skip lessons, and Thorin suspects the man knew that he would only ever have very little time to read the reports, usually late into the night, and even less time to react appropriately. Besides, the occasions of Fili's disobedience would grow fewer, slowly but surely, and Thorin is intrigued, to say the least – it's clearly all the Professor's doing, and Thorin desperately wants to have the time to ask him _how._

Where did he learn all this, and where did he come from? How did he appear out of nowhere, managing to all but ignore every single rule he was presented with and _still_ achieving what he achieved? At what point exactly did he convince Thorin not to fire him? He's still so... unrefined, Thorin decides, watching him more intently these days, failing to hide his amusement whenever he witnesses him trip over his words, noting discreetly all those strange mannerisms he possesses, from raking his hand through his hair when he's deep in conversation, to scrunching his nose when he's reading. They don't see each other for days at times, and he wonders how he could ever stand him, but then they meet for five seconds, and the conversation flows flawlessly, the man constantly challenging him with his impertinence and his subtle humor. And perhaps because their meetings in person are so few, and long in between, he remembers every single one of them – the time the Professor barged in on his meeting with the French diplomats, or that one time he heard Deidre's thunderous laughter two hallways over and found her, the Professor and the boys playing some sort of modified tag because it was raining outside... Or that time late into the night in his office, Thorin's temples throbbing after a hard day's work, and Mister Baggins suggesting he drink more, what was it, _actual liquids?,_ so earnestly and awkwardly that it made Thorin laugh... Or bumping into him at Dori Haban's workshop, out and about with a young lady who turned out to be the Principal at Fili's new school, and his easy grin and, yes, trademark awkwardness lifting up Thorin's spirits almost imperceptibly for the rest of the day...

That one time Thorin decides to have lunch in the boy's dining room, and sees the Professor sitting in the grass in the vast garden outside, he's so beyond trying to discern what draws him to the man. He simply orders the maids to set the table for two and wanders out onto the veranda. The air is so much warmer than expected, and he realizes spring is almost done with, and summer is coming, and he's barely noticed until now. He inhales deeply, shedding his suit jacket and draping it over his arm, and smiles when Professor Baggins notices him and jumps to his feet hurriedly.

He agrees to join him for the meal without much ado, if a bit surprised, and they chat easily enough, and Thorin barely remembers he originally came here to pursue the feeling of nostalgia after all those times he missed having lunch with his nephews in this very room. He brings it up somehow, and the Professor's easy optimism, his ' _One opportunity wasted doesn't mean another one won't arise',_ serves to make Thorin realize that there really is no need or time for moping, and no benefit in it either, and then, with considerably more worry, gazing at the man sitting across the table from him, _you're the first one who's made me think like that, do you know? The first one since my sister._

He's not quite sure whether that should make him overjoyed, or terrified.

All he knows as he stands overlooking the great ballroom a couple of days later, the first dance of the Gala commencing, is that he can see Dís' as clearly as if she were really there, neck arched, hair flowing, spinning in her midnight blue dress in the middle of the dance floor, and there's no guilt, or shame for him in the sight. His nephews are at his side, almost peaceful, shining brighter than any of the crystal chandeliers, and Thorin allows himself to believe, if only for a split second, that she'd be glad to see them like this.

He wishes for her to be by his side with even more intensity then, because he must leave the boys and start tending to the seemingly endless string of his dancing partners. Dís would always be the one to snatch him away when it was most needed, and no duchess or countess could refuse or show her dismay when the King wanted to dance with his sister, of course. The slow foxtrot was their favorite, and they floated on the dance floor easily, Dís giggling and telling him to _chin up, stand straight, the Royal Bank's President's son is checking you out again..._ Everything was so easy to brush off then, with her around, jokes made at his expense only serving to fuel his resolve, the old ladies' ' _So when will we see a Queen by your side?'_ ,followed by Dís' playful _'Yes, brother dear, when?'_ ,and always put to a swift end by Thorin's firm _'No one could be a better Queen than my sister, I'm afraid',_ and they laughed, and danced, and laughed some more.

The first Gala without her, last year, was a miserable event for all parties involved – they decided to throw it still, to show that the Crown keeps on going nevertheless, and Thorin had made a speech about how his sister would wish him to continue this noble and glorious tradition, et cetera et cetera, but the boys had refused to come out of their rooms that night, and he doesn't remember much from the evening – he had to excuse himself early, utterly incapable of withstanding the endless condolences on one hand, and people trying to be overly cheerful on the other. The splendor had faded without her.

Not so much this year – he orders himself not to feel guilty for enjoying himself, and instead concentrates on handling his numerous dance partners with as much grace as possible, considering they're mostly old, nosy crones. He indulges himself in carrying a glass of champagne with him wherever he goes – finishing it takes ages anyway, as he barely ever stops greeting people, and talking, and listening, and laughing when needed. But it's all good – it's his job, and it's not any more or less enjoyable than usual, he discovers. The smiling comes to him more easily, though, and somehow, the overall atmosphere is different this year, something he only remembers very vaguely, back from the times both his siblings were still alive, Frerin nothing more than a gangly teenager charming diplomats' daughters left and right, Dís a gorgeous young lady, expertly escaping the advances of every other man in the room. The years of the Crown's old glory, before their grandfather began his downward spiral, dragging the country with him. 

Thorin's not so vain as to think that he's managed to match that, but his era, too, is one of prosperity and safety – Erebor is healthy and stable, and though there is no one to remind him the way his sister would, Thorin knows he's doing a good job. A hard and impossible one, sapping him of more than one chance he'd like to pursue, perhaps, but a good one nevertheless. Speaking of chances one would like to pursue...

Officially speaking, he has absolutely no time to talk to Professor Baggins at any point during the evening, but he still tries his best and catch glimpses of him every now and then, hurrying here and there, usually with up to four children hanging off him, or a glass of champagne and a plate of food in his hands, and he looks somewhat disheveled and almost inappropriately chipper even in his very smart new suit with his hair slicked back, but most importantly, he looks like he belongs.

Thorin feels almost a sense of pride, watching him talk to all sorts of Erebor's finest and obviously hold his own. Any pang of jealousy he might feel at the sight of him and Miss Smythe so obviously enjoying each other's company, he swallows before it can amount to anything, of course. It's been entirely too long since...

No, he tells himself, not here, not now. The second he starts thinking in terms such as _'endearing',_ or _'affection',_ he knows he's lost. This is the one thing he can't afford, really, under any circumstances. By the time Doctor Grey appears out of nowhere in the middle of the night, Thorin is a bit more wary – even though the man is a welcome distraction and an excellent conversational partner, he has his ways of finding out things one never wanted to divulge at all in the first place. But for now, Gandalf seems more interested in politics, which is boring tonight, but safer.

“And I hear Smaug Bundushar is back in the country, too,” he says matter-of-factly after they've thoroughly expressed their mutual dislike of Azog Karkâl.

“You _hear?_ ” Thorin scoffs at him, “you probably knew months before I did.”

Gandalf shrugs noncommittally.

“Ah, well,” he snickers, “...I understand he's not partaking in the upcoming celebrations?”

“No, and thank Mahal for that.”

“...Or the elections.”

“Or that. I don't really see why-”

“You know just how interested he is in Karkâl. It would be wise not to underestimate him, or his reach.”

Thorin sighs, stretching his neck, perking up a little when he notices Professor Baggins on the far side of the veranda they're currently standing at.

“Do you think he came back to undermine me, then?” he asks absentmindedly.

“I think he came back at a very convenient time, that's all,” Gandalf replies, following his line of sight and adding, “you won't hold it against me if I look into it a little bit, will you?”

Thorin tears his eyes away from Bilbo and regards Doctor Grey with more interest.

“I think the real question here is in what world would I ever be allowed to hold anything against you?” he remarks dryly, and Gandalf raises an eyebrow enigmatically, but never looks at him, and Thorin decides to forgive him his secrecies just for this one night – most of them, anyway.

“You seem awfully pleased to see Professor Baggins is doing so well here,” he says, carefully colorlessly, “please tell me he's not another one of your... informants.”

Gandalf laughs earnestly at that.

“Bilbo?” he pfft's, “he'd probably actually try to kill me if I offered to make him my _informant._ No, he's just a very old friend, who only so happened to be in need of an adventure at the same time that you happened to be offering one.”

“You speak of this job like it's some sort of larger-than-life undertaking,” Thorin frowns.

“Isn't it?” Gandalf sniggers.

They watch Mister Baggins laugh with a group of people including the journalist, Bard Ibindikhel, and a smile quirks Thorin's lips before he notices that Doctor Grey is, in fact, watching _him._

“Well, erm,” he clears his throat, cheeks flushing no doubt on account of all the champagne, “you'll forgive me if I decide not to have much faith in the _purity_ of your intentions.”

“Oh, please!” Gandalf exclaims, mock-hurt, “I'm not all that bad! I promise, just this once, I simply thought I would play the matchmaker, nothing more.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“You can't deny that Bilbo is a good fit here.”

 

And, well, no, of course he can't deny that, but he merely hmph's, and delves back into the crowd soon enough, deciding that that's quite enough prodding and enigmas from Doctor Grey for one night. He does not know when exactly he decides to disappear, but one minute, he's getting a refill and chatting with Dain's wife Barbra, and the other, he's arguing with Dwalin about his safety.

“It's just a walk, for crying out loud,” he groans, and the Head of Security scrutinizes him sternly, eyes narrow.

“But _why?_ ” he demands to know, and laughter bubbles in Thorin's chest at his genuinely confused grimace.

“Do I need a reason?”

“Thorin, you haven't taken _a walk_ in years,” he says flatly, “what is this about?”

Thorin sighs, feeling a bit like a teenager being scolded by his mother, and thoroughly enjoying the shock in Dwalin's eyes when he pats his shoulder shortly.

“It's the champagne talking, I think,” he mumbles, “but I thought I would go and visit my sister's grave.”

A ghost of some indiscernible emotion flashes over Dwalin's face.

“Oh,” he sighs, “I see. But... now? In the middle of the Gala?”

“Please, _bâhel_ _,_ ” Thorin continues his strategy of utter honesty, and it seems to be working on Dwalin, who is more used to curt orders, rather than any sort of expressions of emotion, “I've talked to about three hundred people tonight. I need a break. ...Don't make me order you,” he adds, and Dwalin rolls his eyes.

“I think I'd actually feel more comfortable if you did,” he grumbles, and when Thorin smiles, he sighs profoundly, “alright, whatever. I'm not arguing. Give me a second.”

And not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Thorin marvels at Dwalin's efficiency, because not five minutes later, they're striding in the park side by side, the sounds of the Gala slowly fading behind them.

“You really didn't need to come with me,” Thorin remarks shortly, and Dwalin scoffs.

“Right, and end my career with 'let the King skip off into the dark one night never to return again'? _Ma ghukhil_ _._ ”

“Your secret sense of humor really gives me life,” Thorin replies dryly, and Dwalin laughs, and they continue wordlessly, the Head of Security obliging more or less obediently when Thorin asks him to give him a moment alone and wait for him before the gates of the cemetery.

The murmur of the breeze ruffling the leaves of the oaks and the tall grass is the only sound he can hear, even though the city deep below him is glowing and teeming with life. A tiny flame flickers and dances on the gravestone, and it takes him a while to remember that Deidre comes here with a new candle every now and then – he feels a very direct pang of guilt then, but he swallows it quickly.

The memories that flood his mind are powerful, but not overwhelming, which is an achievement all on its own, he supposes – he can all but hear Dís' shrieking as they played tag, and Frerin's victorious laughter when he was the first one to climb the tallest oak. He remembers sitting in the grass when he was twelve, and sitting in the grass when he was twenty five, and it felt the same every time, the air forever carrying the smell of smoke and baked apples their father would let them make under his supervision. The cemetery nearby never really bothered them – none of their ancestors had been added to it for decades, and it was only a mysterious spot to discover, rather than a place to fear. 

As Dís grew older, she would retreat here to read, taught Thorin how to sit down and appreciate the quiet whenever he happened to wander after her – together, they watched the city down below and spun theories about the future. The last time they came here together was shortly after Frerin died, full of anger and despair none other than the two of them could understand, and then finally when Dís herself died, Thorin knew he could not bear for her to be cremated and put into the official family tomb – no, out of some twisted sense of jealousy mangled with pointless nostalgia, he needed her close.

Her only wish had been to be buried beside her husband (she was too young to make any other such wishes anyway), and Vili's family complied with the King's request quite easily. And so there they lay, overlooking Erebor forever, and standing by the gravestone now, his fingers resting on the top of it ever so gingerly, Thorin feels immense sadness, but still... When he closes his eyes, the first thing he sees is his sister and her sons laughing, he can almost hear it, and that's when he realizes (perhaps for just this one night, perhaps with a more lasting effect, who knows) that it really does not do to dwell in the past. She would have told him that – she did, in fact, literally nursing him back into mental health after the loss of their father, grandfather _and_ brother. She said _'This will eat you up if you let it. This will destroy you. It's not fair, and we're too young, and there's no one to help us but ourselves, but it's not their fault.'_

We can't blame the past for our present, or something along those lines. He's never been one for promises, but he swears to her then, wordlessly, _I'll make it. I'll do my best. They're safe, and happy, and you were right – they're all I have now._

He walks back to the Palace feeling very lightheaded, but not more or less happy, or more or less desperate, than before. He's always dreaded visiting her grave, because he's always dreaded the emotions it would bring about, but just like everything else, it's easier than it seems once he's tried it – it definitely hurts less than he'd feared.

 

The Palace feels almost surreal as he approaches it, lit up like a precious gem, and he suddenly very distinctly doesn't want to return to the company of all the officials and nobles, and so he convinces Dwalin to leave him, and wanders out into the personal part of the gardens. He's not quite sure, but deep down, he might have expected it a little – bumping into Professor Baggins. The first thing he feels when he sees him sitting on the flat stairs of the veranda in the boys' garden, is relief, strangely enough. 

“ _Z_ _âzyungizu_ ,” he mutters under his breath, remembering another thing his sister said to him, and though the Professor cannot hear him yet, his eyes flutter open, and Thorin is treated to yet another endearing display of his awkward shuffling about as he adjusts his glasses and gapes at him somewhat incredulously.

And perhaps it's then – that very night, on that very moment, that Thorin gives up, loses a bit of himself to the man. He does not know. The words they exchange don't matter, really. What matters is the warmth of Bilbo's hand when Thorin pulls him to his feet, and the fireworks mirrored in his eyes later, setting them ablaze, and... He knows far too well that he shouldn't, shouldn't indulge himself in any of this, because it's unattainable, and dangerous, and possibly quite silly. He did drink quite a lot, and he's feeling somewhat feeble, not really like himself, but Dís would say it's a good thing. She'd say _live a little. At least one night a year._

Or maybe it happens a week later, or two weeks later, watching Bilbo work with Fili's new friends on their movie and realizing he didn't even think twice before he allowed it, or a couple of weeks after that, when the Professor brings the finished product to him at the most inconvenient time, and Thorin watches it even though he's utterly dismayed at the report on Smaug Bundushar he just saw... he's not sure. He's certainly not sure he wants to address it at all, honestly.

 

“Oh, you're not wearing that.”

“...I'm not?” he mumbles as Deidre steers into his quarters with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a kitten in the other.

“It's a birthday party, not another debate, _gimlanîth,_ ” she offers simply, “besides, you don't want to get cat hair all over this fancy suit.”

He takes the kitty from her somewhat uncertainly, and she shakes her head, scoffing.

“They don't bite, you know.”

The furry thing begins purring almost immediately, and he regards it wordlessly.

“He's completely healthy,” Deidre declares, “has quite the appetite, and I'm sure the boys will have a lot of fun getting him off of those new drapes they've got. I think it would be best if we... Are you alright?”

“ _Kulhu_? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Fine.”

He must have been staring out of the window for too long, then. She frowns, scrutinizing him, but he merely tilts his head, and when she sighs, he opens his wardrobe again.

“So, what do you think I should wear then?” he asks very seriously, and she chuckles.

“When was the last time you wore anything other than a dress shirt?”

“Last night, actually,” he replies swiftly, and she laughs some more.

“Well then, something halfway in between a suit and pajamas, alright?” she suggests, and when he decides on a simple cotton shirt and jeans, she actually seems touched.

“Well, look at you, looking like a normal mortal for once,” she teases, and he sighs.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. And by the way,” she adds, catching him entirely unprepared, “I believe Mister Bilbo is wearing blue as well today. How nice of you to co-ordinate.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out, and she barks a short laugh, infinitely pleased with herself.

“Right, I'm done with teasing for this month, I promise,” she utters as she steers out of the room, and he simply glares at her, frowning deeply, until the kitten meows loudly, and he sees that it's caught its paw in the very expensive upholstery of his favorite armchair.

Disentangling it gently and cradling it in his hands, he sets out, but not before he grants one last glance to the photo of his brother and sister on the windowsill. Frerin's _'_ _so what? You'll be King one day, you should be able to be with whoever the hell you want!'_ and Dís' _'_ _love yourself'_ ring in his ears simultaneously like some sort of a lullaby, and he just can't help but think they'd be making jokes about co-ordinating much earlier than Deidre. Oh Mahal, what has he gotten himself into, unwillingly or otherwise?

* * *

** Dictionary: **   


_Bâhel_ \- My friend

_Buzun_ \- Go

_Ma ghukhil_ \- No way

_Zâzyungizu_ \- Love yourself

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, okay, here we go. I suggest you treat this chapter as a sort of intermezzo before ~stuff starts happening. I felt like Thorin's POV really needed to be explored, but what I didn't know was that I would be writing two thirds of this under the influence of heavy fever and some questionable pain meds... You tell me if it's at all noticeable. Also, I'm sorry for the sluggish updates lately, but it's been a busy couple of weeks, and I promise I'll get back on track come the Christmas holidays! :')


	10. Chapter 10

Bilbo and the heat of summer don't mix very well. He remembers that his father would stop wearing coats the second the temperature climbed slightly above zero, and would usually forsake long sleeves around March, cursing spring, and the sun, and everything that made him break a sweat, really. Like him, Bilbo finds little enjoyment in sports, and even though he's come to love fresh air, and nature in general, much more since he came to Erebor, he starts getting a bit nervous when one day, he doesn't even need a cardigan at night anymore.  he realizes then, perhaps a bit too late, that it won't stop there. Erebor is, after all, situated much further to the east, and though he's not an expert on geography, he knows the mountains will provide little to no comfort.

That is, if one doesn't decide to hike there, which is another thing Bilbo never even considered getting invested in – but then again, he'd never really considered taking care of two little Princes in a small European monarchy. Things change. His wardrobe is going to have to change, what with the alarming lack of light shirts and even lighter trousers to battle the weather.

But most importantly, his idea about what constitutes quality leisure time is definitely going to have to change. The summer holidays are starting in a couple of days, and already, both boys have dozens of suggestions about what they'd like to see, and where they'd like to go, and some careful prodding reveals that the King would be more than grateful if Bilbo were the one to plan the entirety of the upcoming two months, alone. Which is, well... how could he possibly refuse?

“The sea seems to be on top of the list right now,” Bilbo reports, His Majesty's office bathed in the unbelievably rich golden haze of the setting sun – it's past eight in the evening, and as much as Bilbo hates the heat, he's quite fond of this, of the long-lasting light.

“Hmm,” Thorin mumbles, “it's been a long time since... I believe their parents took them every year. There is a family resort in Marseille, do you think that would be suitable?”

Bilbo blinks, memories of the glory of the Côte d'Azur flashing in his mind, from the time he accompanied his students from Bree to the Cannes Film Festival, a good long time ago. It's shame it takes place in May, though, otherwise he'd be sure to pull a few strings and show the boys the grandeur.

“That's... wonderful,” he sighs.

“Good,” the King nods, “it'll be best if you set up a date with Balin. Any other... requests?”

“Erm... Disneyland. It was Kili's idea, he said their mother had been promising to take them...”

He curses his waggling tongue in the next second, because Thorin frowns almost imperceptibly, but the pain is all too obvious in his eyes.

“I see,” he says quietly, and Bilbo is just about to apologize, but to his surprise, the King smiles then, shaking his head lightly, and declares much more cheerfully, “well, I don't see why not. The one in Paris, I presume? Since you're already going to Marseille...”

“That's right! We can make a trip of it,” Bilbo nods, “well... halfway across the country, if memory serves, but still...”

“Not to worry, Professor,” His Majesty chuckles, “I can guarantee you we'll provide the most comfortable transport possible. Does a private jet sound good to you?”

“Um,” Bilbo manages, and Thorin snickers.

“Excellent. Now, there is a number of events I'd like the boys to attend here, at home. I trust the dates will be made known to you soon. Other than that, any more ideas?”

“Well, Fili's friend Ori, Master Haban's brother, invited him to spend a week with him in the mountains. I'm given to understand they have a lovely cottage, and Kili could come too, of course.”

“And you?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you be there?” the King wants to know, “it's just that... I'd much prefer to know you are at the boys' side at all times.”

Bilbo gives himself a mental slap over the top of his head, to make sure that the sudden onslaught of fondness warming his heart doesn't make it to his face, and merely nods.

“Understood. I'll ask, see what I can do.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“Well, actually...” Bilbo shuffles in his chair.

“Yes?” Thorin eyes him curiously.

“I thought I would suggest... I mean, it's just that, a suggestion...” Bilbo stammers, and the King actually laughs.

“Are you at a loss for words, Master Baggins?” he grins, and Bilbo doesn't even attempt to fight the blush, “this might be the first time – should I call the hospital?”

Bilbo sighs, rolling his eyes, and Thorin waves his hand.

“I'm sorry,” he smiles, “sorry. What was it that you wanted to suggest?”

“That you yourself find some time to spend with the boys,” Bilbo finally manages to say.

“Oh,” the King mutters, leaning back in his chair.

“I know... I realize you're very busy,” Bilbo continues hastily, “but even you need to relax, correct? And I'm sure the boys would be absolutely overjoyed-”

“Are you?” Thorin says quietly.

“Of course!”

“I'm not so sure.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Bilbo chuckles, then opts for honesty, “all they need is a little time. They're not... they're not afraid of you, Your Majesty. Nor do they despise you, you do know that, right?”

Thorin merely huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, his look darting away from Bilbo and out of the window.

“It's not that much of an ordeal, I promise you,” Bilbo continues, daring a slightly teasing tone, “and it's not like I'm planning on locking the three of you in a confined space and forcing you to spend time together.”

The King's lips quirk in a fleeting smile, and he narrows his eyes at Bilbo.

“What are you planning, then?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Bilbo shrugs, “...for you to join us whenever you have the time. For example, I'm sure the 'family resort' in Marseille will be awfully empty with just three people.”

“You're a fool if you think I'm letting you go there without a security team.”

“You know what I mean,” Bilbo sighs, “and... really? A whole team? What, like a hit squad, in case Kili breaks something expensive?”

Thorin frowns at him, but the smile dancing on his lips gives him away.

“Well?” Bilbo raises an eyebrow, and the King measures him sternly for a good long while, until finally, he declares: “I'll think about it.”

“Really think about it?”

“Yes, yes, _really_ think about it.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo grants him his warmest smile, and His Majesty clears his throat.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me what?”

“Do you not want a holiday? I dare say you've earned a couple of days off.”

“Oh, I...” Bilbo mumbles, “to be completely honest, I haven't given it much thought.”

No thought at all, in fact, and it's strange, but then again... What would he do? Go back to England for a week or two? The idea is so powerfully off-putting he dismisses it immediately. He could travel around Erebor by himself, see the sights, spend the afternoons reading in the shade of the park's greenery... But somehow, that seems a bit dull. The truth is, the boys' company makes him very happy, and though he does long for a bit of peace and quiet every now and then, all the excitement he is yet to experience with Fili and Kili is infinitely more tempting.

“I'm fine for now,” he states with a smile, “I'll be sure to let you know when it all gets a bit too much.”

“Just don't overwork yourself,” Thorin replies, and Bilbo can't quite resist and offers: “Coming from anyone else but you, Your Majesty, and I might take that suggestion seriously.”

The King frowns again, but somehow, Bilbo knows there is nothing he could say to spoil his apparent good mood today – honestly a miracle on its own.

 

His own good mood only lasts until after he tells the boys that their Uncle approves of all their trips – he receives yet another call from Bard Ibindikhel that evening, right in the midst of one of the wonderful barbecues Bombur has started throwing on the small veranda adjacent to the Staff Building, quiet and cozy, muffling their chatter, laughter and, yes, occasionally singing.

“I'm in the middle of something,” Bilbo utters perhaps a bit too harshly, but the smell of roasting meat is far too wonderful, and the night is young, and the crickets are chirping, and all he really wants to do is sit with his friends and drink disgustingly expensive wine.

“Forgive me for intruding,” Bard sighs, sounding tired, “I'm only calling to ask if there's any news regarding your holiday schedule. We need to set up a meeting at least a month in advance, you understand...”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Bilbo waves his hand impatiently, “and... ah, just... just set it up. Give me a date, and I'll put it down, I'll be there.”

The other end of the line is silent for a moment.

“If at any point you decide you don't want to do this...” Bard says, but Bilbo cuts him off, grumbling: “I do. I want to do it. ...I think. I want to help.”

“Good,” the journalist replies, “excellent. So how about very early August? Bundushar is leaving for America for some time in July, so after that will be suitable, if it works for you.”

“I suppose,” Bilbo says, then, to entice Bard a bit more to get him off his back, “that's good. The Princes are supposed to be home for the first week of August, I think, so... yes, that should work.”

“Thank you,” the journalist replies, “have a nice evening. I promise I won't bother you this much anymore.”

“...It's fine,” Bilbo sighs, his politeness getting the better of him, “it's all good. Don't worry about it – I do want to help.”

And, well, that much is true, he concedes later as he dismisses his friends' questions about the nature of the call. He's certain he has no idea what he's getting himself into, and the warning bells chime in his head every time a new e-mail comes from Bard – the conversation between his fake Mister Kevin Kent and Smaug Bundushar continues slowly, but surely. The eager young student is currently mooning over the billionaire's ruthlessness when it comes to business solutions, and would like to know more about his history in Erebor. It's still a little hard to believe, all of it. It reads like a fairy tale, and Bilbo can only admire Bard Ibindikhel for his guts, and, undoubtedly, a strong dislike for rules. Bilbo himself simply decides (following the best tradition of his father's part of the family) to cross that bridge when he gets to it. For now, he has other things to worry about – or, more accurately, be very excited about.

 

The boys' last week of school duties is rather leisurely, and they are both eager to finish. Fili passes all his tests and exams with flying colors, to both his Uncle's and Bilbo's joy – him and his brother making the King happy, and visibly so, might be Bilbo's greatest achievement yet, and also, he decides for himself, his sole job description these days.

“Making a filthy rich royal family happy, and getting filthy rich yourself in the process,” Fridda remarks at the school's last garden party before the holidays, “what a thing to put on your resume.”

“I do hope I'll never need a resume, ever again,” Bilbo sighs, leaning back in his folding chair and tipping his glass of lemonade to her, “I could grow old here.”

She raises her eyebrows, and he chuckles.

“It's true,” he shrugs, “this country is doing wonders for my inner decadent – the people are friendly and cultured, the food is glorious, the air is fresh...”

“The King is very handsome...” she adds, and merely tilts her head when he straightens up and opens his mouth abruptly to retort something very clever, but both his voice and the chair fail him, and he suddenly struggles not to spill his sweet drink all over his brand new shirt.

“You said that, not I,” he grumbles, and she giggles.

“Either way, I'm impressed at your patriotism already,” she teases, “you do seem quite smitten-”

“Stop it.”

“-with the country, of course.”

“Of course,” he rolls his eyes, then continues, “I am, though. Smitten. With the country. The educational system makes much more sense, as do the taxes, from what little I understand, and it only takes, what? Five years, to become a citizen?”

“Five years and perfect knowledge of Khuzdul,” she reminds him.

“Ha. Yes, I know. _Khuzduh ugbîl ughelekh ashurur giluz_.”

“Impressive,” she grins, “though you're still a little soft on the consonants. It's a native English speaker thing, though, no worries-”

“And that concludes our lesson for today, thank you,” he waggles his finger at her mock-sternly, “remember, this is the very last day of school.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Fridda laughs, “A minus, and go home, I don't want to see your face once for the next two months.”

He puffs up in exaggerated indignation, and she laughs some more, and then smiles fondly.

“Scratch that last part, actually,” she says, “I would very much like to see your face at least once in the next two months.”

“And I yours,” he nods, “me and the boys are leaving next week for Marseille, though, and won't be back until the very end of July.”

“That long?” she wonders.

“The Palace will be very happy to get rid of its loudest inhabitants,” he sniggers, “and we're planning on taking a lot of trips all over France – well, I'm planning and hoping the boys will agree to come along.”

“Marseille,” she sighs, “I envy you. It's very... romantic. Will the King be joining you?” she adds a perfectly innocent question, eyes large with theatrical interest, and he groans.

“Probably not,” he states, and her shoulders sag.

“How un-romantic of him. He could at least make an effort.”

“I'll make sure to tell him you said that.”

“On a more serious note, though...” she mumbles, and Bilbo's stomach lurches at the now-genuine interest and concern in her eyes.

“No no,” he waves his hand jovially, interrupting whatever she was about to say, “I'd much prefer we keep the teasing note, if you will.”

Fridda scrutinizes him wordlessly for a moment, but then she shrugs, sipping on her drink.

“As you wish. But if you ever do want to talk about it...”

“About what?” he retorts somewhat pointedly, “patriotism?”

The smile she grants him is a bit too knowing, and also a bit too irritating, Bilbo thinks, but scolds himself the very next second. She does mean well, after all.

“Yes,” she says quietly, “patriotism.”

“I'll let you know,” he mutters half-heartedly, because what is there to talk about?

Yet another evasion strategy is refusing to call it names. Once he decides to define that feeling, those fluttering leaps his heart makes every time he sees the King after a long absence, that fuzzy warmth with which he wakes up every day now, entirely too happy... The second he calls it something concrete, it will turn into a lead weight on his shoulders and heart, he knows. He's been there before. He's had his fair share of unrequited crushes, and, and failed almost-relationships, and... right. _That_ is calling it names.

Most of the time, he's content with convincing himself that it's the prospect of a luxuriously spent summer that excites him so, and that all of the adventures he's sure to have will help him forget... whatever this is. After all, is there anything more amazing than weeks at the seaside in July, and the glory of Erebor's mountains in August? Surely not. ...Patriotism at its best.

 

And really, Marseille exceeds all his expectations. The boys tell him all about the family house before their plane even lands in France, but it's all a little hard to believe – but then he sees it with his own eyes. The manor (because any other word simply wouldn't do it justice) is situated on an incredible cliff looming over a private beach, comfortably far from the city, and Bilbo spends the first hours there alternating between feeling slightly anxious, but also very, very excited about the numerous rooms of the house, the verandas, gardens, and the pool, and admiring the view. There is something infinitely calming in simply gazing at the endless expanse of the sea, melting with the sky on the horizon, and watching the setting sun slowly color everything gold and pink. He can't wait to spend his evenings like this, with a book and good food.

That very first one, though, the boys drag him down the numerous stone stairs to the beach, Fili taking pictures of everything with his brand new camera and Kili nursing Muzmith the kitten, which he insisted on bringing with him, giggling when the tabby jumps out of his arms and onto the sand, and spends the next ten minutes utterly startled by the new, unknown surface below his paws.

Bilbo himself takes off his shoes and stands inches away from the murmuring water, hands in his pockets, the sand below his feet slowly cooling, and he's not quite sure if all of it is real. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply, and hears the click of a camera at that very second – Fili gives him a thumbs up and a cheeky grin, and Bilbo's mouth forms a perfectly horrified 'o', and he proceeds to chase the boy around the beach, all in good fun so that Fili doesn't drop his camera, of course. But the Prince proves very skilled in running backwards and snatching dozens of photos of Bilbo as he goes, and really, that pretty much sets the mood for their whole stay there – effortlessly cheerful.

Their days there are lazy, in the best possible sense of the word. The boys seem to get sick of the sea exactly never, and spend hours splashing each other, diving and building sandcastles, while Bilbo lounges under a colorful parasol, his legs the only part of his body he allows to tan. They spend some afternoons in the city, coursing the boulevards and eating as much ice-cream as they can possibly bear, the boys admiring the numerous seafood stands, and street theater shows they stumble upon, dragging Bilbo to this shop or that. Wherever they go, they are accompanied by two of Dwalin's finest - Tom and Bert are their names, but they are quite easy to get used to, always polite and non-intrusive, keeping their distance and simply helping Bilbo make sure the Princes don't get completely lost in the crowd.

At night, Bilbo makes his best effort to get to know the house staff, even though the majority of them don't speak a word of English – dusting off his French makes for fun evenings spent in the summer house in the garden, trying to understand the groundskeeper's quick muttering about wine, or the cook's jokes, and with their help, Bilbo plans a number of trips for the boys, all within driving distance – he's already quite sure the Disneyland venture will be a bit exhausting, once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence, and he's saving that for some time during their last week in France.

And so they visit beautiful derelict castles, and cozy villages with vineyards, and take a boat trip across the length of the  Côte d'Azur, everything documented on Fili’s camera, and Bilbo reads everything he hasn’t had the time for, making his way through the new Orhan Pamuk, and revisiting Coelho and Murakami, and it feels utterly wonderful, of course, it’s just that...

It's not that he minds solitude. Not in the slightest. He relaxes immensely, quite sure he must be gaining a lot of weight, too, what with all the generous amounts of food and barely any movement except for descending and ascending the long staircase leading from the house to the beach every day. But he misses the company... Alright, yes, a very specific company. But he just can’t help but think that the King could be here, experiencing all these wonderful trips with his nephews and drinking sangria by Bilbo’s side on the veranda in the night when the crickets start singing... Wait. He’s sure he came here to convince himself that he’s _not_ pining for HIs Majesty, not at all. Yes, he should concentrate on that, for heaven’s sake.

His life is already as idyllic as it gets, and he really has nothing to complain about. _But it's for the boys – they'd be so happy_. Right – when will that excuse cease to be enough? Bilbo resents himself a little bit more every time he sends Balin an update on their activities, and receives an update on the King's in turn. He watches His Majesty's interviews online before going to bed and tells himself he's merely keeping tabs on the political situation. A couple of times a day, he wonders what His Majesty is doing at that very moment, and somehow manages to convince himself it's completely innocent. He goes swimming deep into the night, the sea still warm, and watches the reflection of the moon and stars glisten and dance on the water's surface, and _yearns_ for company, but dismisses all that quickly and efficiently the second he gets out of the water, throwing his towel around his shoulders to fight off the momentary cold. At some point, the boys watch Disney's Hercules, and Bilbo feels a sudden urge to leave the room when the princess Megara starts singing _'I won't say I'm in love'_.

 _This is real life_ , he scolds himself, _not a bloody rom-com. You're just unlucky that the object of your affections is a damn King, and you'd better deal with it before you start planning... anything. Whatever you're hoping for, it's not happening. Oh, and better stop using the term 'object of affections', too._ Jane Austen would be proud, but his mother would howl with laughter and fondly call him hopeless.

 

The Disneyland trip is utterly exhausting, even though they are flown to and from Paris on board of the same private jet that brought them to France in the first place. The boys are both teeming with boundless energy, demanding to explore every single inch of the magical (magically loud) place, and Bilbo can't refuse them, of course, spending a hardly appropriate amount of money on popcorn and ice-cream and all those funny hats, taking literally hundreds of photos because Fili is so distracted by everything... The weather doesn't help either – the sky is stubbornly azure, without a single cloud to offer at least a little shade, and by the time the plane takes off again in the evening, Bilbo is quite sure he has a mild case of heatstroke.

Both Princes fall asleep in their seats, and perhaps he really should have bought a room for the night in Paris... Oh, forget that. Forget all of that, because the second their car enters the driveway leading to the Marseille manor, he notices another vehicle parked in front of it, and his heart flutters in silly, joyful hope. And indeed, the King himself waits there in the hall, and both the boys and Bilbo gape at him in mild disbelief, the Princes still a bit sleepy, and Bilbo just very pleasantly surprised.

“You came?” is the first question, and Bilbo is relieved it actually comes from Fili, and not him.

“Of course I did,” Thorin smiles, “how was your trip?”

“Great,” Fili nods.

“Awesome!” Kili throws his hands in the air, his energy utterly renewed after the twenty-minute nap.

“Exhausting,” Bilbo sighs earnestly, and His Majesty laughs.

“I'm going to want to hear everything about it,” he declares, “tomorrow, though. Go on, it's late, go to bed.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” Bilbo jokes, and Fili pfft's while Kili grabs his hand and pulls him towards their room.

“Not you!” he exclaims, “you need to read to us!”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo mumbles, shooting Thorin a quick desperate glance before Kili pulls him away, “I would've forgotten completely.”

He receives a smile in return, and the King trails behind them, lingering in the hallway while Bilbo makes sure the boys change into their pajamas and get into bed without clutching any of their new toys.

“What are we reading?” the King asks, and his nephews answer “Artemis Fowl!” in unison, and Bilbo shushes all of them curtly, which grants him yet another smile from Thorin, and... alright, well, obviously he was wrong, thinking that the last four days of their vacation couldn't bring about anything new.

“...You're here,” he breathes out when he finishes his daily one chapter and closes the door to the bedroom gingerly.

“I'm here,” the King nods, “you're leaving on Friday, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Excellent. I need to be back home for a couple of meetings on the weekend, but I thought, well...”

“It's a good thing you came,” Bilbo tells him earnestly, and _honestly, will the beautiful smiles never end?_

“I'm afraid we've seen everything we wanted to see, and were planning on spending the last days by the sea, doing nothing much,” he adds, and Thorin chuckles.

“Sounds perfect.”

And it is. Oh, it is. The boys accept their Uncle's presence utterly effortlessly, even more so that he's willing to spend much more time in the water with them – Bilbo witnesses (and takes numerous pictures of) an almost touching afternoon that begins with the King simply trying the water for a swim while the boys play on the beach, but the ice is broken when Kili whispers something into Fili's ear, and it's dismissed quickly at first, but then when they tentatively look to Bilbo for approval, he ushers them on, and can't stop laughing at them startling His Majesty by splashing him with heroic amounts of water. Kili's the brave one while Fili keeps his distance still, but even he can't help but grin when the King responds to the younger boy's light spritzing with a mighty wave created by nothing more than one hand, leaving the Prince utterly drenched. Bilbo perks up, a bit worried Kili might start to cry, but he bursts into gleeful giggles instead and attempts to half swim, half run away when Thorin goes after him with an exaggerated menacing grimace.

 _It's not polite to stare, Bilbo Baggins_ , he reminds himself when the King makes his way out of water, Kili hanging off him and chattering about this or that. _No, correction, it's impossible_ not to _stare_. Royalty shouldn't be allowed to wear less than two layers, for the sake of the sanity of the common man. For crying out loud, does His Majesty actually find the time to exercise somewhere in between all his numerous duties? Bilbo actually takes off his sunglasses and indulges himself in a pained whimper before the King reaches him. This is so unfair. He's already so much trouble as it is, is there really any need for him to be so... so... bloody ignorant of his perfectly sculpted body? Bilbo all but plasters his hand over his mouth. Sweet mother of muscles. This isn't going well at all.

 

In general. Bilbo hasn't bothered once with picking his outfits in the last weeks, but he stands helplessly in front of his wardrobe for what might be thirty minutes or an hour that evening, trying to decide on just the right shirt for a dinner in the city. In the end, he ends up wearing white, and so does Thorin, and dammit, this color co-ordination thing really does creep up on you, doesn't it?

Fine, god dammit. He's fallen in love – why not admit it? Because he can't sleep the last night before their flight home, nursing his third glass of wine on his room's small balcony, wishing he were dead, or were able to fly, possibly both at once? ...Right, that's probably why. Oh, this is bad. Very very bad. Very very very bad. Wasn't there a song about 'falling in love under the seaside sun' or something? It must have been one of those without a happy ending, certainly. Because that's where this is headed. A pit of despair, and you should know better than that, for crying out loud. A monarch? It's like loving a, a... Wait, no. There can't possibly be anything worse than this. _He's probably straight as a ruler, did you ever even think of that? Setting yourself up for crippling heartbreak while you're young, well done. Outstanding life choices._

To further strengthen his belief that he's somehow fallen into a badly written romantic comedy, his train of thought is interrupted by a phone call the very second he notices the King walk into the garden below him. Bilbo curses under his breath and fishes the phone out of his pocket, pondering hanging up immediately when he reads the name of the caller.

“Yes?” he hisses, and when Thorin hears him and turns to look, his perfect bloody figure bathed in the perfect bloody moonlight, Bilbo raises his hand and manages a small smile.

“Is Marseille stressing you out?” Bard Ibindikhel notes, and Bilbo rolls his eyes discreetly.

“Not in the ways you would think,” he retorts.

“The King came to visit, didn't he?” the journalist chuckles, and at that moment, His Majesty's own phone rings, and he shoots Bilbo an amused glance before he answers it.

“How did you... Oh, forget it. What do you want?” Bilbo groans.

“Just making sure you got the note about the date.”

“Oh, right.”

He did, and he decided to forget about it the very next second, because it was time for lunch, and Thorin was teaching Fili how to take macro photographs, and pretty much everything paled in comparison with that.

“Yes, yes,” he mumbles, “it's... fine. It's good.”

“Are you _sure?_ ”

“Absolutely,” Bilbo says, then, after some searching in his memory, “in two weeks' time, right? It's perfect.”

“Very well then,” Bard declares, “I'm glad to hear that. Can we meet on the weekend? Sunday?”

Bilbo agrees to everything rather absentmindedly, his eyes glued to the King, who is now pacing on the far side of the garden by the rose bushes, speaking quickly in hushed tones, looking less than thrilled.

Bilbo ends the call and lingers on the balcony, unable to look away, and when Thorin sees him, his shoulders sag, and he sighs.

“Everything, erm... alright?” Bilbo asks, and the King waves it off with a groan.

“Nothing that some more wine couldn't fix,” he says, “you?”

“Oh, um... relatives,” Bilbo blurts out before he can really think it through.

“Ah,” Thorin smiles, “am I wrong to assume more wine wouldn't hurt your case either? Or were you going to bed?”

“Oh, I would if I could,” Bilbo declares jovially, even though his heart is racing like a hamster on coffee, “I do believe there's some leftover rosé in the fridge.”

“Shame to leave it behind,” the King says simply and walks into the house, and, well, it will have been Bilbo's fourth glass that night, but his common sense is somewhat dulled exactly because of that, and so he leaves his room (sparing a fleeting glance in the mirror inside his wardrobe and deciding it's all, as usual, as good as it's going to get) and tiptoes down the stairs to the kitchen. Thorin is already balancing the half-empty bottle of wine in his hand, along with two glasses, and _dammit Your Majesty, stop smiling every time we're in the same room, would you?_

“The night's too pretty to sip this over the counter like teenagers, wouldn't you agree?” the King offers, and Bilbo nods mutely, discarding his old glass and following him out onto the veranda overlooking the beach. He makes a half-hearted attempt at making Thorin pour him only a little of the wine, but receives a full glass for all his trouble.

“Alright, to, ehh... well-earned relaxation?” Bilbo stammers clumsily, and the King smiles broadly.

“I could toast to that,” he nods, and their glasses clink softly, and for a second, Bilbo ponders finishing his in one long gulp.

“I must confess, I'm very glad you made me come here,” Thorin states, and Bilbo frowns at him.

“Goodness, I'd like to think I can't _make you_ do anything, Your Majesty,” he replies, and the King chuckles.

“Oh, but you did. Balin would send me every single report of your time here, with a note attached about how he'd be happy to rearrange my schedule so that I could join you.”

“Did he now?” Bilbo laughs, “then it's his fault, not mine!”

“I disagree. You were the one to tell me to spend more time with my nephews, and I figured what better place to do it than here?” he gestures over the starry sky and the quietly murmuring sea, “besides, your account of all those wonderful trips you took them on... It was all very... taunting.”

“Taunting,” Bilbo repeats, his throat suddenly a bit dry, as the King holds his gaze, his lips still curved in a smile, his features softened in the light of the sole lantern above their heads.

“Indeed.”

“Well then,” Bilbo manages somewhat weakly, and does take a longer-than-necessary gulp then, because all words get lodged in his throat for a second, “I do hope you've managed to... get some rest here.”

“For the first time in a long, long while, yes.”

_Please stop smiling, oh god._

“Me too. And you thought I needed a holiday.”

“I do admit I was secretly hoping Marseille might change your mind.”

_Oh shut. Up._

“I dare say it did.”

_About so many things, you have no idea._

“Good. Are your relatives visiting?”

“E-excuse me?” Bilbo is thrown off balance a bit by that, but it also helps him realize he might have been gawking at His Majesty a bit too intently, and he straightens up, inhaling deeply to clear his mind at least a little bit.

“The phone call,” Thorin reminds him gently, “did I hear something about a 'two weeks' time'?”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, and all alcohol in his blood seems to dissipate within the span of seconds.

“Right, erm... yes,” he clears his throat, “I... my, my, my Aunt is visiting, with her children, I promised to show them around a little bit.”

“You don't seem too happy about the idea,” Thorin smirks.

“...You could say that,” Bilbo nods.

 _Considering it's a blatant lie_. When did that become so easy?

“I won't... I won't be away much,” he hurries to add, “two afternoons at most, because it really is... Well, you see Lobelia, my Aunt, is much more fond of hiking than I, so I will be more than happy to point her in the direction of the mountains and leave her be...”

“I see,” the King chuckles, and Bilbo starts feeling utterly uncomfortable in his own skin right at that very moment.

Did he really just spin a lie in Thorin's face completely out of the blue? Well, it will help him explain his disappearance when he goes to talk to Smaug Bundushar, but still... This is not a spy movie, for crying out loud! And he's not a liar! And the King is so unassuming, and he trusts him so much, and oh no, he's getting all tangled up in this. He should tell Thorin the truth, right now. ...Even though he looks really, genuinely happy for the first time since Bilbo met him, comfortable and handsome in his simple white t-shirt, with his hair all mussed from letting it dry during the day...

Later on, Bilbo will realize he was being incredibly selfish, that one last night in Marseille, that he should have come clean when he had the chance and faced the consequences as an adult is supposed to, but... that will come later. Now he's simply desperate not to spoil this, not to spoil His Majesty's good mood, even though he's cursing himself six ways to Sunday for being a hopeless, silly idiot. _Trying to help him, oh right. How very noble of you._

“Are you alright?” the King asks, and Bilbo blinks at him in confusion, as if waking up from some sort of haze.

“Um...” he sighs.

“You have my permission to hide on Palace grounds when your Aunt becomes too much to handle,” Thorin jokes, but it only serves to irritate Bilbo, because he doesn't deserve it.

He chuckles uneasily, and rubs his forehead.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, then, taking advantage of the yawn creeping in, “I do believe I've had one too many glasses of,” he taps the bottle standing on the parapet, “this wonderful thing. My eyes are closing on their own.”

“Oh,” the King says, “oh, right. ...Of course. Early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, exactly,” Bilbo affirms feebly, making his way back into the house, completely incapable of looking Thorin in the eye anymore, “you know, I don't think the boys have packed at all! I did promise them we'd go to the beach one last time, and I'm dreading them waking me up at six am again...”

“Professor.”

His step falters, eyes fluttering close, and he musters all his willpower to turn and look back at the King over his shoulder. He looks smaller somehow, nursing his glass in one hand, the other in his pocket, and if Bilbo didn't know better, he'd think he'd caught a fleeting glimpse of disappointment in his gaze.

“...Good night,” Thorin says quietly, and Bilbo's heart grants him with a very distinct painful pang.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he sighs, managing a faint smile, and then he turns and hurries to his room as fast as he can, forsaking a shower and burrowing in his bed, waiting for sleep to come, but even that, it seems, is bound to elude him.

 

In the end, he's grateful to be back in Erebor, suntanned, well-rested and happy to step back into some sort of a daily routine. The Princes have a week entirely to themselves before a couple of more or less important garden parties and polo matches the King wants them to attend, and His Majesty himself is, yet again, barely ever home, the Senate now meeting almost daily to discuss some very last-minute adjustments to this or that bill in an attempt to cause as much chaos as possible before the elections come and change the scales entirely.

Bilbo is glad to devote his time to Fili and Kili – the heat becomes almost unbearable, and so they retreat to water yet again, spending time at Erebor's swimming pools, which requires Bilbo's utmost attention, the crowds proving a perfect environment to lose the boys if he takes his eyes off them for more than a second.

The first meeting he sets up with Bard Ibindikhel only serves to further convince him that he's getting into far more trouble than he can possibly fathom – nobody knows of the journalist's plan aside from himself, Bilbo, and, for some yet unexplained reason, Fridda and her grandmother. Bard calls it his 'pet project', and is a bit unhealthily excited about it, his talks of conspiracies and righting long-forgotten wrongs making Bilbo's head spin, and he often wonders if it's all worth it. He could lose his job over this, in one way or another, and that prospect is more terrifying than anything else to him.

“You could also help expose the greatest criminal this country has ever known,” Bard remarks, and Bilbo rolls his eyes, as he does every time when the journalist gets all righteous and determined like that.

“Or be the witness to the end of your glorious career,” Bilbo reminds him dryly, “you said yourself that... how did it go? That Bundushar has 'enough power to make sure you'll never write another line, and everything you love will be eradicated'? Tell me, did you ever consider writing novels instead of columns?”

“I did, actually,” Bard smiles, “my wife was a novelist, but she always said being a journalist was like living in a novel of your own.”

“Tell me, did anyone ever tell either of you that you might have a problem with romanticizing certain aspects of your lives?” Bilbo sighs.

Bard laughs, but it only serves to make Bilbo even more uneasy. The man is barely his age, and he's only been a widower for, what? Two years? A single father of three, one would think he'd be a bit worn down by his misfortune, but it just seems to make him more determined. Something tells Bilbo people like that have 'troublemaker' ingrained in their very being.

Bard keeps asking him over and over again if he's changed his mind, if he wants to back out, and Bilbo keeps convincing him that yes, he's still willing to do this, and yes, he will sue him if he ends up trampled by the machinery of whatever he's getting into. The two weeks until his meeting with Smaug Bundushar swiftly become one, then transform into only a handful of days, and Bilbo spends his evenings re-reading every single e-mail the fabricated Mister Kevin Kent sent to the billionaire.

“He probably looked you up months ago,” Bard tells him as if it's any sort of reassurance, “Kevin doesn't have Facebook, thinks it's 'corrupting', but he does contribute to a news blog, and his graduation papers and bachelor's thesis are freely available online.”

“This is frightening,” Bilbo decides.

“Not as frightening as 'The Contributions of Third World Geopolitics to the Economical Status Quo in the EU – A Comprehensive Overview',” the journalist recites with an easy grin, “Kevin got a B for that.”

“And I don't know anything about any of it,” Bilbo remarks weakly.

“Doesn't matter,” Bard waves his hand, “all you need to do tomorrow is let Bundushar talk – he loves that. Admire him, tell him you think a persona like him is making a big mistake staying away from the country's happenings, and hope for the best.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo mewls, “are you _sure_ he doesn't know who I really am?”

“No,” Bard shakes his head cheerfully, “I'm hoping he has better things to worry about than the Princes' new babysitter – no offense.”

“None taken,” Bilbo grumbles, “I'm just hoping I survive tomorrow, you see.”

“So am I,” the journalist smiles, “I'll get you that chocolate cake we talked about if you do.”

“Nougat filling,” Bilbo waggles his finger at him, “no marzipan.”

“Understood,” Bard grins, then extends his hand to him, “well then, good luck.”

“Chm,” Bilbo scoffs at him, feeling momentarily too brave for his own good.

 

That doesn't last long, of course. He drives on his lonesome to Gundabad the next day, a small town in the mountains, entirely engulfed by the mining industry, and the presence of both Bundushar and Azog Karkâl, whose political party has recently erected a brand new headquarters there – Bilbo tries his very best not to think about it as the lair of the enemy, or some such nonsense. It is in fact a rather beautiful town, all tall pine trees, and a large colorful 'Welcome to Gundabad!' board, and almost picturesque architecture, lots of white stone and red roofs, and Bilbo relaxes a little when he sees that it is in fact populated by normal people, driving their bikes and mopeds, and pushing prams and generally just living very normal lives, completely ignorant of the evil that lurks in one of those beautifully architecturally incorporated modern buildings... alright, he'd better stop before he freaks himself out completely.

Bundushar resides in one of the villas in the hills overlooking Gundabad, but he'll be receiving Bilbo slash Kevin Kent in the Moria Conglomerate Headquarters ('Which is already suspicious, remember!' Bard's words echo in Bilbo's mind), which is an imposing tall building downtown, all sharp angles and dark glass, and Bilbo wonders what committee would let someone build something so strange smack in the middle of all that nice, clean architecture. It's not that it's exactly ill-fitting, it just... gives off a decidedly more hostile vibe than the rest of the city.

He parks his car in the street, marveling at finding a spot so easily, and hurries inside, his heart hammering against his ribcage. The receptionist in the vast, quiet main hall of the building receives him very pleasantly and makes a call in hushed Khuzdul while Bilbo waits, all but holding his breath, the high ceiling and polished floor, and the fact that he's the only one there, only further feeding his uneasiness.

Yet another smartly dressed lady comes to fetch him, simply introducing herself as Miss Schultz and escorting him to an elevator, pressing the button for the eighth floor and remaining a perfect image of collected calm throughout the ride, while Bilbo on the other hand feels his palms are beginning to sweat. Kevin Kent, right, let's concentrate on him. Nice guy, very British, slightly overbearing, far too eager for his own good, and utterly naïve. A bright smile and far too many questions, Bilbo can handle convincingly, he thinks. _Yeah, the two semesters of improv ten years ago will certainly be enough to save your sorry arse._

He's ushered into a sparse sitting room, and asked to make himself comfortable in a black leather sofa, and he feels a bit like waiting for a dentist's appointment, that knot of nervousness mixed with the fear of some unknown disaster looming on the horizon settling deep in his gut. While he waits, he notes how disturbingly quiet the whole building is – he'd expect crowds of office workers, but then it occurs to him he might be on, like, the floor where all the shady business is conducted. The floor that you only visit once, and no one has ever returned to tell the story...

The cheerful 'Mister Kent!' startles him horribly, but to his relief, the man entering the sitting room is very definitely not Smaug Bundushar – he's too short, and round, and kind-looking.

“Welcome, welcome! My name is Zundush, personal assistant to Mister Bundushar. Follow me, please!”

Bilbo obliges, and the man leads him through numerous quiet hallways, the dark carpet muffling their steps, and Bilbo strains his ears to hear at least some sort of proof that someone actually works in this building, and that it's not all just one big ruse to ruthlessly murder him and dispose of his body so that no one ever finds it again.

“Mister Bundushar is looking forward to your meeting very much,” the man called Zundush tells him (amidst all his panic and fear for his life Bilbo realizes his name means 'bird' and is proud of himself for a fleeting second).

“Oh, as... as am I,” Bilbo somehow manages a perfect, nervously eager tone, building on and adding, “I'm so excited that this is actually happening, you have no idea...”

“Wonderful, wonderful, yes,” Mister Zundush smiles, “here we are. Good luck!”

And he ushers Bilbo into the office ahead, closing the door behind him with an entirely too ominous click. Bilbo gulps nervously. He realizes he's not standing on the generic hallway carpet anymore, but rather a floor of polished wood, and that the room ahead isn't an office at all – it's more of... an observatory, the wall of ceiling-to-floor windows offering a glorious sight of the city down below, and a couple of armchairs by small round tables looking very inviting indeed. There is what looks like a couple of very luxurious dispenser machines in one corner – it must be some sort of a leisure time area. A tall man stands by the windows on the far side of the room, his hands folded behind his back, and it is undoubtedly Smaug Bundushar himself.

Bilbo clears his throat, because he feels that it's something Kevin Kent would do, and Bundushar turns at him – Bilbo half expects a slow, ominous twirl and the man's eyes glinting with the ghosts of his evil plans, but he's actually smiling quite pleasantly.

“Mister Kent!” he declares, his voice even lower in person than it was in all those recordings Bilbo watched, “finally! It's a great pleasure!”

“All mine, believe me,” Bilbo replies, shaking his hand and taking care to sound a bit breathless, eyes large – at least the nervousness in his grin and voice alike is utterly genuine.

“How are you liking Erebor so far?” Bundushar asks, motioning him over to the armchairs, “how long have you been here?”

“Oh, not long at all,” Bilbo remembers everything Bard has ever made him memorize, “I came just two days ago! But your country is already absolutely stunning!”

Alright, alright, he can do this. _Actually_ do this.

“Why are we meeting here, if you don't mind me asking?” he continues, and Bundushar's eyes narrow – he's like a serpent, sharp cheekbones and an even sharper nose, one of those faces that probably hasn't changed a bit in the last twenty years, pale skin coupled with hair that was once bright ginger, Bilbo remembers, but is now a very light shade of grey. All in all, he's quite menacing, but reservedly so, not flaunting it.

“Do you not like it?” he raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, no, no, no, it's not that,” Kevin Kent stammers, “I just thought you'd concluded your ties with the Conglomerate quite some time ago.”

Smaug measures him wordlessly for a moment, and Bilbo realizes it's well within his character to shuffle nervously, and so he does. Bundushar smiles.

“You're not a journalist yet,” he reminds Bilbo dryly, “and you didn't come here for an interview.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry,” Bilbo ducks his head shyly.

“That's alright,” Bundushar chuckles, “I would be a fool if I didn't expect at least a little prying. In one of your last e-mails, you asked me why I avoided Erebor's press, and instead allowed you to talk to me.”

Bilbo simply nods, and what follows is the most expertly strung-together show of the vanity of one man that he has ever witnessed. Bundushar believes the press would mistreat him, just like it did all those years ago before he was 'forced' to leave the country, and he has 'better things to do', and 'more important causes to devote himself to'. He's infinitely pompous and full of himself, and it's incredibly easy to make him talk about his businesses, his charity work overseas and whatnot, but it is when Bilbo prods about his history with the Crown that the man closes up.

From his point of view, he was 'betrayed' by the old King, who promised him a great political change that would bring about many new opportunities for him and his company, and the new King, Thorin, betrayed him by not sticking to his grandfather's ideas about Erebor.

“I tried my very best to talk some sense into the boy,” Bundushar sighs, something in Bilbo protesting very vehemently against him calling Thorin 'boy', “but he was too determined. Brash. Thought he could rebuild a country on ideals alone. You should have heard his talks about 'rejuvenation', and all of that. Very easy to listen to, lots of pretty words, but no real substance. That has stayed with him to this day, I'm afraid.”

“Seems like you could teach him a thing or two,” Bilbo remarks, even though he hates himself for it.

“Perhaps,” a small smile quirks Bundushar's lips, “but it's not my place. The King will learn his lesson soon enough.”

Bilbo's heart skips a beat almost audibly.

“...How so?” he inquires, taking care to keep his voice level.

“Well,” Smaug drawls, and for a second, Bilbo actually thinks he's going to reveal his whole horrible plan to him or something, but then the man merely stretches his arms, knuckles cracking, and the smile on his face is luxuriously self-satisfied.

“Will you be around for the Peace celebrations?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Oh, um... when is that again?” Bilbo wonders innocently.

“The second week of September. Do stay. It's bound to be quite lovely.”

“I'll... that's... that's quite far ahead,” Bilbo shrugs.

“I understand,” Bundushar nods, “but really, and this is an exclusive – please keep it to yourself?”

Kevin Kent nods frantically, while Bilbo sorely wishes he's not about to hear some sort of state secret that will eventually get him killed.

“The celebrations are all about honoring the peace that His Majesty, King Thorin II, has managed to uphold for a glorious ten years,” Bundushar declares with a clear undercurrent of disdain in his voice, “and, well... let's just say I didn't come back at this very time to just wave a flag in a parade and clap when he makes his grand speech.”

Bilbo gapes at him and feels a chill creep up his spine despite the temperature in the room resting on a level barely above making him sweat through his shirt.

“That, that... sounds vaguely ominous,” he peeps, and when Smaug Bundushar laughs, Bilbo does the very best piece of acting in his life and manages not to cringe.

The man leans back in his chair, his hands on his knee, and declares, in a tone that makes Bilbo want to run straight out of the room and the building, get into his car and drive somewhere far away: “I should hope so.”

It speaks of trouble, _a wealth_ of trouble, and Bilbo curses himself for ever agreeing to this, for ever actually setting foot into this country – it might actually be the first time since he came here, but it's certainly, certainly not the last.

* * *

**Dictionary:**

Khuzduh ugbîl ughelekh ashurur giluz - My Khuzdul gets better every day.

Muzmith - Little beast

Zundush - Bird **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, here we go. I'm sorry this chapter took so long! We are now at 80k, and I'm slightly terrified. I know exactly where I want to take this fic and how I want to get it there, but stuff keeps getting in the way, and many a plot twist is less than expected even to me :'D I hope you liked the update nonetheless :')  
> Also, I discovered [this](http://fishsicle.tumblr.com/post/70467285815) amazing piece of fanart and I'm so happy, you guys are so lovely to me :')


	11. Chapter 11

Lying is so inconvenient. Bilbo hates it with every fiber of his being, and yet... He can't really see another way out of this mess he has gotten himself into. He walks out of that horrible, hostile, cold building miraculously unscathed that day, but the sun almost blinds him when he stands in the street, and his head is spinning, and he is, for the first time in ages, really, properly lost. What does one do in situations like these? Smaug Bundushar didn't actually say he was going to _do_ anything – he kept being very secretive and ominous in general about his plans for the Peace celebrations, and then at some point he started talking about his business plan for the new quarter, and all hope of finding out more was lost.

“He spoke so much, but actually told me so little,” Bilbo describes to Bard, calling him the second his car speeds on the driveway leading away from Gundabad and back into the capital.

“That's what they do, yes,” the journalist says, “you're saying you think he might be up to something?”

“Oh, he's _definitely_ up to something,” Bilbo whines, “you should have heard him – he kept talking about how the Crown needed _reminding of its actual purpose,_ and stuff like that. It was hard to listen to without cringing.”

“Hmm,” Bard muses.

“Hmm what?” Bilbo demands, “what are we going to do? We must stop him, whatever... whatever he's about to do! Aren't we going to get the police involved?”

“The police?” the journalist laughs, “on what grounds? We have absolutely no proof that something will, in fact, go down. We need to find out more. Did he offer you another meeting?”

“...He did,” Bilbo groans, “but it's... I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“It's like a... a rally, of Azog Karkâl's party, here in Gundabad. He told me he could introduce me to... what was it? Oh yes, ' _all manner of interesting people'._ I don't want to die in Gundabad, you understand.”

“But that's perfect!” Bard exclaims, “wonderful news!”

“What, me dying?” Bilbo remarks dryly.

“Oh, come on now, you're not going to die. You're going to meet _interesting people._ It's the perfect opportunity to see if and how much Bundushar actually has to do with Karkâl in the present day. A little bit of investigative journalism.”

“But I'm not a journalist,” Bilbo sighs, “and I certainly don't want to be _investigating_ anything! The Princes and me are leaving for another holiday in two weeks, you know!”

“And this rally is when?”

“On the 14th.”

“So before that! That's wonderful.”

“ _Please_ stop talking about this like it's so exciting, and great, and brilliant,” Bilbo utters, “to me, it's frightening, and nothing else. The _lies_ I told the man! He tried to convince me – Kevin – to stay in the country until the Peace celebrations, and I told him I would be traveling to France soon. To account for my whereabouts when I'm with the boys, you understand. _Then_ I told him I _might_ come back for the celebrations if it strikes my fancy. I felt like a villain the whole time.”

“You did a great job,” Bard replies, and Bilbo can _see_ him grinning on the other side of the line.

“Oh, please don't.”

“Will you do it, then?”

“Do what?” Bilbo moans.

“Go to the rally. This might be our only chance to-”

“Save it. Very important, yes, I know, I know. I'll... will you let me think about it? I told Bundushar I'd let him know by the end of the week.”

“Of course,” the journalist agrees, “and Bilbo?”

“What?”

“Thank you. The country-”

“Oh, no. No no. Don't give me that,” Bilbo groans, and ends the call rather harshly, and very resolutely.

_Patriotism,_ he now knows, only gets people in trouble.

 

He is so relieved to have a couple of days to himself, to spend with the boys. He is much less relieved when he realizes he's going to be spending them mostly with the King as well. Another polo match takes place on the Palace premises, as well as a number of more or less private garden parties accompanied by late night concerts of various string quartets, or opera singers, and even a harp soloist, all of them glorious, all of them compulsory to attend for the Princes, which means Bilbo as well. Unfortunately, he's barely capable of enjoying himself, what with having to keep an eye on Fili and Kili at all times, and his phone constantly buzzing with Bard's updates on their situation, and, of course, the King himself in such a close proximity. Thorin seems to be in an unbearably grand mood these days, and Bilbo simply can't look away on most occasions – he's simply too radiant, too wonderful, chatting with this or that official or noble, laughing and nodding to Bilbo whenever they cross paths, even introducing him to, yes, all sorts of interesting people, and all in all filling his head with ideas and hopes that are miles away from what he really needs to concentrate on.

“It's been so long since we've seen him like this,” says the Prime Minister's wife, Barbra, appearing at Bilbo's side one particularly beautiful evening after he's sent the boys to sleep and now anticipates, along with everyone else, the short music recital to start in the less used, but no less wonderful, part of the Palace gardens.

“Oh... Mrs Kirikhbuzun!” Bilbo stammers, “wonderful to see you again. And... how so?”

She smiles at him, and they toast with their champagne, and together, they watch the King entertain a group of who Bilbo believes are diplomats from at least three different countries.

“It might surprise you,” she notes, “but His Majesty used to be much more... reserved. Parties like this weren't exactly a common occurrence, but more of a... necessity for him, I dare say.”

Bilbo swallows his comment about how he can imagine all of that very well, thank you, _I know what he's been through,_ and just raises his eyebrows instead – the Prime Minister's wife is endlessly graceful and sweet, but also a bit of a chatterbox, he understands.

“It's true,” she remarks, “the Palace hasn't been this active since... well, since the Princess perished. Goodness knows we never expected His Majesty to move on at all, but it seems he has managed to do so, somehow. It's wonderful to watch – you could almost say he is a changed man. I _wonder_ what brought that about.”

She's eying Bilbo with a poorly concealed glint of amusement in her eyes, but not budging an inch is what he's good at, after all.

“You're right,” he notes, and she puffs up in expectation of some gossip perhaps, but he continues absolutely colorlessly, “I'm given to understand the elections are going well for your husband and His Majesty? And then the Peace celebrations are coming soon... The Crown does seem to have happened upon a stroke of luck, well deserved too, if you ask me.”

Much to his dismay, she giggles and grants him a rather disconcerting _oh-you_ grimace.

“Yes, that is all absolutely amazing, of course,” she smiles, tilting her head, obviously expecting to entice some sort of reaction with her next words, “but are you sure that's all there is to it?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Bilbo replies sweetly, and she smirks.

“I don't want to be implying anything, of course-”

“Then don't,” he says firmly, then offers her his arm, “I believe the recital is about to start. Come on!”

Yes, handling tattlers he can do. No one, not even Fridda with all her teasing, has managed to make him but hint at his feelings yet, and he's certainly not going to start now. He's sure it would make a right mess of things, even more than it already is, and he can't afford that – he has enough to worry about as it is.

For some wildly incomprehensible reason, the King requires his presence almost daily, and Bilbo wouldn't protest in the slightest, of course, if it didn't mean exhaustive battling with his feelings and... and _desires,_ and also, yes, the lying. It's hard to feel anything but utterly desperate, sitting by Thorin's side during the polo match and watching the horses and their riders chase the ball on the field ahead, and having to withstand His Majesty's unceasing interest in Bilbo's relatives, who are, of course, visiting right now for all the King knows. Fortunately, it's quite easy to complain about Aunt Lobelia even though she's nowhere near Erebor, and for his part, the King actually seems to be amused by Bilbo's vague whining, and appreciative of the praise he sings over the Princes compared to his own cousins (whom he still likes very much, and promises himself to send them a present for their birthdays, to make up for... all this).

But none of that can quite chase away the foul taste of untruth. Bilbo wishes he'd refused Bard when he first asked him. He wishes he didn't feel the stupid, ridiculous need to somehow help the King, and if he could, he's sure he'd travel right back in time and smack his past self over the top of his head for ever thinking he'd actually be capable of it.

But alas, here he is, and _'no turning back'_ has never been less appealing, or more annoying. Because all it takes is Thorin letting slip a complaint, _one_ complaint about Smaug Bundushar, a sadness and displeasure that Bilbo doesn't think he has any right seeing appearing in his eyes for a split second, and it's done; it's decided. He's going to try and help, and _when exactly did you abandon common sense and started deciding on a whim like this? It's not healthy,_ his mother would scold him – he can practically hear her. _Oh, I don't know Mum, probably around the time that I started having late-night fantasies about a goddamn King._ Inconvenient? Oh yes. Avoidable? Sadly not.

 

And so he finds himself speeding back towards Gundabad one particularly glorious summer morning, and leaving the Palace and the Princes behind feels extra horrible and infuriating that day. There's a horse-riding competition going on – Bilbo was almost relieved when he learned, because he thought it might mean he'd absolutely need to stay with the boys, but apparently the King _'saw no problem with letting you have another day off, Professor – you deserve it, and many more',_ as Balin told him. Besides, it means Fili and Kili will get to spend some time with their Uncle alone, without Bilbo's supervision, and it's a small solace, but solace nevertheless.

Promising himself he's going to take an _actual_ day off, and very soon, Bilbo drives through the city in search of the building Bundushar's office told him to be at. It turns out to be a nice villa in what Bilbo suspects is the rich quarter – sunken in a rather splendid garden, it seems almost harmless, but his gut still twists nervously when he sees all the horrendously luxurious cars parked by it, and the very important-looking people everywhere, chatting and laughing and no doubt plotting some horrible, horrible things.

“K-Kevin Kent,” he stammers when one of the house staff demands to know who he is, and flashes his fake ID at him.

Because that's what he has now – a fake ID. 'Don't ask', Bard told him when he presented him with it, and Bilbo sure as hell doesn't plan to.

He is ushered into the backyard of the manor, offered a glass of wine, and simply told to wait. A small stage in the shade of a couple of trees is currently being occupied by a pleasant enough band playing in Khuzdul, and there's quite a number of people present – the prevalent type is what Bilbo personally calls 'the fast food businessman', after the men one can find in various hot dog stands all over the city back in England, ranging from chubby to outright rounded, with would-be-expensive suits and sweaty cheeks, always one step away from dripping mustard onto their tacky ties (if they're wearing any) and ruining what's left of their image.

Incredibly glad he's decided to wear a simple cotton shirt and light trousers, he scours the crowd for any familiar face, and is satisfied to discover they're all complete strangers to him. He just about starts amusing himself with guessing who the mafia bosses or drug dealers are, when Bundushar's personal assistant, Mister Zundush, appears at his side, sweatiest and most rounded of them all.

“Mister Kent!” he greets Bilbo somewhat breathlessly, “we're glad you could make it! A bit hot, isn't it?”

“Never too hot for politics, I suppose,” Bilbo grins, and receives an uneasy chuckle in response.

“That is, unfortunately, true,” Zundush sighs, “come now, Mister Karkâl is about to make his speech, followed by Mister Bundushar himself. We'd better find good seats in some shade.”

Bilbo can't argue with that, and sits down next to the man. Thankfully not in the first row – he's beginning to get just a little bit anxious, because he catches a glimpse of both Bundushar and Karkâl getting ready by the house, and he's not sure which one of them looks more menacing.

“Will they speak in Khuzdul?” he asks Mister Zundush, who's fanning himself with Karkâl's party's promotional leaflet.

“Oh... Mister Karkâl will,” the man replies, “I'm sorry – I'll do my best to translate to you the most important parts. But Mister Bundushar will speak in English, I believe.”

“Oh,... good,” Bilbo replies, even though he feels anything _but_ good, “and thank you.”

Azog Karkâl takes the stage then, to a thunderous applause, and seeing the man live really is rather... off-putting? Intimidating? Certainly much more powerful than watching his face on the telly. He is somewhat handsome, in the way a shark or the devil are handsome – very sharp features and relentless eyes, a bull neck, muscles heaving under a black shirt rolled up to his elbows, only serving to add to his menacing image. _That_ is someone made entirely of mafia-boss material. 

Mister Zundush doesn't manage to translate much of Karkâl's speech, mainly because he seems to be too frightened and intrigued by it at the same time, but Bilbo understands that for all his self-assured demeanor, Karkâl doesn't have what politics takes, which is the basic understanding of cooperation, and grasping the simple concept that one is not always right. His ego is so much bigger than him, engulfing him and anyone who gets too close, Bilbo suspects. He is somewhat disgusted by the man, and _definitely_ disgusted by everyone who claps, and even cheers, at the end of his speech – Bilbo's almost relieved when Smaug Bundushar comes on. He notices Bilbo and sends him a wink that makes Bilbo cringe, and then waits for the applause, even more vigorous than Karkâl got, to end.

“Welcome!” he declares then, and Bilbo takes a look around to see if anyone's as disturbed by his sly smile as he is, “welcome here, ladies and gentlemen, on this beautiful day! I am so glad to be among my own once again. I know many of you will resent me for the English ( _scattered laughter_ ), but as a wise man once said,  _alùgab_ _bijebrukm_ _â mahkheremkhi ku m_ _âzyungm_ _â_ ( _more laughter, and Bilbo does his best to understand the turn of phrase, but figures it must be some sort of an Ereborean-only joke._ ). Now, all of you know this house. Mister Karkâl senior himself would hold meetings here during the Azanulbizar revolution. I believe some of you were actually here yourselves a couple of times? Ah, yes, Mister Urkhun _,_ welcome. Yes, yes, I see you there, Mrs Bâhzundush _._

See? Our history is still alive in here – no offense. We all of us witnessed the ( _he literally makes the air quotes_ ) 'rebirth' of this country here. Some of us survived it unscathed, some of us less so. But we are all here today because we're not quite happy with where this rebirth has taken Erebor. A lot of you think I'm a coward for leaving the country when the need was most dire, I know that. But I would never abandon Erebor. It is precious to me. It is mine, as much as it is yours, and I won't see it collapse in on itself.

I'm fully aware I said I wouldn't take any direct part in the upcoming elections. But then again I also once said I would buy a friend a Lamborghini if he beat me in golf, and guess what, he still drives a miserable.. what is it?”

“A Hummer,” Azog Karkâl grins, as he's apparently that friend.

“Atrocious,” Bundushar tsk-tsks, “not very ecological. Anyway, my point is – there are promises worth keeping, and promises worth forgetting, and only I get to decide for myself which are which. And so should you – most of you, or your parents, made a promise here ten years ago to take care of this country. And that stands above all else. Which is why I'm back, here and now – I've returned to keep that promise. As unreliable as the press has become, I will be announcing it officially shortly, but I do believe all of you deserve to know first – I _will_ be financing this political party and its campaign, taking a part in the upcoming elections. The Crown might not like this at all, but when did we ever do anything to please the Crown?!”

The last sentence is declared into yet another deafening round of applause, and some people are actually _cheering._ Bilbo is beginning to feel sick, and also like another glass of wine, even though it's barely past lunch.

“We will seize this chance to take back Erebor!” Smaug states then, and Bilbo actually cringes for real this time – this feels bit too much like a fanatic leader preaching to his mindless loyal subjects.

“The monarchy is a thing of the past, and it's only a matter of time,” at that point Bundushar looks directly at Bilbo, who struggles not to squirm, “before the Crown realizes it as well – and if it is up to us to force that realization, then so be it! We have the means. You have all of you been wondering if we have what it takes to sway the Crown, I know that. Doubt is only natural in these circumstances. But I'm asking you to take my word for it – we have leeway now, quite unlike anything you could have ever imagined. Retrieved only two weeks ago, now under heavy supervision.”

An uneasy, unsure murmur rises in the audience, people looking very surprised, and someone exclaims: “So it's true? _Furkhi?_ ”

_'He's alive?'_

There's no other way to translate the sentence, and fortunately, Bilbo remembers himself not to blurt out 'Who is?', as Kevin Kent has absolutely no knowledge of Khuzdul, of course.

“Indeed,” Bundushar smirks, “and once he is well, I'm confident he'll cause a proper uproar, just by appearing at the right place at the right time. I dare say the Peace celebrations will be anything but peaceful.”

More laughter and more applause, and Bilbo feels rather nauseous, and also like getting out of there very fast – this is too much. This actually _is_ secret conspiracies and clandestine information or what have you, and he's in way over his head, and quite frankly scared out of his wits. He needs to speak to Bard, and soon.

When Bundushar finally finishes basking in his audience's slash minions' approval, he doesn't disappear back into the house, but joins 'the people' instead and starts conversing with them easily, side by side with Karkâl, and Bilbo figures if he's to get away, now would be the time. But before he can find an escape route, Mister Zundush by his side catches Bundushar's attention by one simple discreet gesture, and the man mutters a couple of words to Karkâl, and they both make their way towards Bilbo, much to his chagrin. 

“Mister Kent!” Smaug declares, “I'm so glad you could make it! What did you think of the speech?”

“It was very, erm... fiery?” Bilbo stutters, his throat in sore need of another drink.

“Fiery!” Bundushar laughs, “now that's an adjective I'm pleased with. I'm sorry you didn't understand Azog's speech, though – it was equally as _fiery,_ I assure you.”

“Oh, I'm sure of it,” Bilbo says a tad feebly, managing a weak smile in the direction of the last man he should be associating with, he's sure.

“Azog, this is Kevin Kent, the young man I told you about,” Smaug smiles, “Mister Kent, let me introduce Azog Karkâl, Erebor's next Prime Minister.”

He doesn't even try to dispute that by a joke – he's that sure of himself, nodding firmly and shaking Bilbo's hand shortly, with a curt 'My pleasure.', eyes narrowed and jaw set tight the whole time, up to the point that Bilbo begins to suspect it's actually his resting face.

“T-the pleasure is all mine,” he stammers, then adds a bit more eagerly, to assert his image as the excited to-be reporter, “I'm so grateful for this opportunity, really, I am. I feel honored to be here.”

_Really. Maybe you should give improv another try, at the rate you're going._

Bundushar grants him a benevolent smile and a nod, while Karkâl remains largely uninterested.

“We're glad to have you here,” Smaug says, “we always need an interested foreigner who shares our visions.”

_I'd lock up both you and your visions so that neither would ever see the light of day again, but sure._

“Now excuse us, I believe duty calls,” Bundushar remarks, rolling his eyes, _you know how it goes,_ “have fun. Talk to people – I'll find you later and introduce you to some of my... more esteemed colleagues.”

He chuckles and Karkâl smirks, and then they're off, and Bilbo can breathe again. He's left alone in the crowd, which he doesn't mind in the slightest – he has the urge to disappear as quickly as possible, really. He wanders inside the house, hoping to find a nice quiet spot to make a call to Bard safely, and if he snatches a couple of garlic bread rolls along the way to calm down a little bit, surely no one can blame him.

There are fewer people inside, and it's cooler, and he finds he's allowed to walk pretty much anywhere – aside from the second floor, apparently, as a neatly dressed maid informs him gently, but firmly. But there is nowhere on the ground floor to have a second to himself utterly alone, it seems, unless he wants to make his call on the toilet. He struggles for a bit, but his curiosity gets the better of him eventually – it always does, really.

One skill he has learned at the Palace is looking purposeful wherever he's going, which is why no one stops him when he does make his way upstairs, taking care not to encounter any house staff. He half expects to be stopped in his tracks by a security guard and quietly knocked out, and wake up tied up in a closet hours later, but it seems his luck is holding for now. 

The second floor of the building is utterly silent, his steps muffled by a thick carpet as he walks through the broad, naturally lit hallway. He passes three doors, two of them locked and one leading into a small, unremarkable sitting room, which he decides to return to to call Bard once he's finished investigating. Didn't he say he wasn't going to do that? …Oh, well.

He hears the voices then, coming from around the corner, but quiet and incomprehensible – they must be inside a room. Discovering new limits to his bravery (stupidity?) with every single step he takes, he braves peeking into the adjacent hallway, and sees that a door on the far end of it is flung open, and two tall men in dark suits are just walking out of it. _There's_ the security. His heart makes a fluttering leap, and he very nearly curses under his breath, jolting back and somehow managing not to hit the small table behind him, and the incredibly expensive-looking vase on it. He tiptoes back where he came from, but soon realizes he can't just go running down the stairs without being noticed by _someone._ And the undoubtedly armed security guards are getting closer, definitely coming his way.

Without a second thought, he jumps into the sitting room, having enough wits about him not to shut the door lest it's too loud, and hiding behind the one tall bookshelf by the window, which almost seems designed exactly for that purpose. 

He is reminded of Fili on the first day they met, hiding in the Palace library, and he has a moment of intense nostalgia mingled with quite the undercurrent of annoyance about his own life choices, ending up in a small epiphany about the ridiculousness of this whole situation. _Only in Erebor,_ he thinks, and suddenly has to strain himself not to giggle. However this ends, he should probably write a paperback detective story about it when he's sixty or something. It is unbelievable enough.

The footsteps pass the room he's in, and he hears the men conversing in hushed Khuzdul and make their way downstairs. He gives himself some more time – counts to a hundred in fact – before he walks out, letting out a relieved sigh at the sight of the empty hallway, and hurrying around the corner, even though he's not exactly sure what he's hoping to accomplish or find there.

_They probably locked that door behind them, you know,_ he scolds himself, _and you're an idiot in a lot of trouble._

But no, it is actually half ajar, the room inside bathed in the sun's glow, and all Bilbo can see is long white curtains fluttering in a gentle breeze, and the corner of a bed, probably, though it looks more like one of those hi-tech hospital ones... His heart hammering somewhere in his throat, he presses on the door with his fingertips ever so gently, and it opens entirely too quickly and quietly, and a soft whimper escapes Bilbo.

But all is forgotten at the sight inside – there is, in fact, a hospital bed by the tall window, and in it an incredibly frail man, pale even against the white sheets, thin, translucent skin stretched over sharp cheekbones and gaunt cheeks like paper, worried wrinkles criss-crossing his brow even in his sleep, and a number of tubes leading from his wrist and even his nose to the system of drips and other hospital equipment Bilbo can't pretend to understand. The computer next to the bed provides the only sound, a quiet, steady beeping of a heartbeat.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Ah!” Bilbo exclaims in horrible shock and entirely too loudly, and swivels to see who has spoken, half expecting a gun pointed in his face, but his jaw drops when he recognizes the newcomer.

“ _Gandalf?!_ ”

“Shh,” he puts his index finger on his lips, winking at Bilbo.

“What on earth-” he starts fervently, then remembers himself and lowers his voice to a hushed hiss, “what _on earth_ are you doing here?!”

“I believe I could ask you the same question,” Gandalf smiles shortly, “well?”

“I, I... I asked you first!” Bilbo manages lamely, and Gandalf narrows his eyes.

“Let's just agree we are both here even though we shouldn't, alright?” he offers lightly.

“I don't even _want to_ be here,” Bilbo groans, and Gandalf tilts his head.

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

“You see, there's this journalist... Wait, no, you actually know him, even though it is _beyond me_ how. Bard Ibindikhel? He asked me to do this _ridiculous_ thing, where I impersonate a, a reporter who has been corresponding with Smaug Bundushar – do you know him? Silly me, of course you do. Anyway, here I am, sneaking around and, and... lying about who I am, and now _you're_ here? I'm confused, Gandalf! Confused _and_ frightened! Please tell me what's going on?”

“What makes you think I know anymore than you do?”

“Oh _save it!_ ” Bilbo cries, slapping his hand over his mouth the next second, but the man in the bed doesn't stir one bit, and no one is coming in guns blazing to arrest them yet, either.

“Please?” he repeats much more quietly, his bravado quickly dispersing, and to his surprise, Gandalf smiles.

“Let's get out of here, first,” he declares, “I'll buy you coffee and answer some of your questions, how is that?”

“ _Some_ of my questions?” Bilbo groans, “let's start with who the hell is this?”

He notices Gandalf's features softening when he spares a glance at the sleeping (comatose?) man, but it's only momentary.

“That's not important right now.”

“Not important – Gandalf, they said this man was their, their... leeway against the Crown!” Bilbo hisses, “surely he's someone significant!”

“He is,” Gandalf sighs, “but look at him – can you see him overthrowing the monarchy any time soon?”

“But-”

“Come on. We've lingered long enough.”

“But-!”

“ _Bilbo,_ ” Gandalf speaks unusually sternly – Bilbo has only seen that look a couple of times before, and knows well enough it only means trouble.

He spares one last look at the bed and the mysterious man in it, and then follows Gandalf obediently, out of the room and back to the stairs. They don't run into any security on their way, and Bilbo's mind is full to the brim with questions he needs some answers for. He almost suffers a heart attack when they walk out of the building and into the garden, and the first thing he sees is Bundushar with the two security guards from the second floor, engaged in discussion. Surely they didn't see him...?

“Let me speak,” Gandalf mutters, squeezing Bilbo's arm shortly, when all three spot them and make their way to them.

Bilbo doesn't even nod – he couldn't say anything even if he tried to, he suspects, what with how tight his throat is with all the worry.

“Doctor Grey,” Bundushar all but drawls, “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“What can I say, I'm getting old,” Gandalf replies effortlessly, and Bilbo reminds himself not to stare at him too much and let his shock show – does Gandalf know _everyone?!_ Oh, the questions. So many questions.

“I won't embarrass you by asking how you procured an invitation,” Bundushar smiles humorlessly.

“Oh, is this not a public event?” Gandalf snickers, and Smaug rewards that with a dry chuckle.

“Every event is a public event for you, isn't it,” he says utterly menacingly, then turns to Bilbo, who marvels at his ability to even stand straight and not bolt and run until he's back in England.

“Do you two know each other?” he demands to know, and Bilbo's heart sinks.

Oh, so this is how it feels, knowing one has gone too far and is about to die, probably.

“I, uh...” he manages, but Gandalf pats his shoulder then, managing to knock all air out of his lungs, and exclaims cheerfully: “Don't tell me you're ashamed of me, Kevin! See, Mister Kent here used to be one of my best and brightest students back at Bree!”

“You... you flatter me,” Bilbo gulps, beginning to sweat properly.

“Not at all, not at all,” Gandalf beams, while Bundushar scrutinizes Bilbo thoroughly.

“I'm sure it's a wonderful story,” he says at last, slowly and suspiciously, “shame you have changed careers since that, Doctor.”

“You – you have?” Bilbo asks, his puzzlement not at all feigned, and Gandalf shrugs.

“Yet _another_ wonderful story,” he replies, “for another time, perhaps?”

“Absolutely,” Smaug nods curtly, “it's been a pleasure as always. I trust you will let my men escort you out without a fuss.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, but Gandalf grants him a very private wink before sighing theatrically: “If it really is the only way...”

“I'm afraid so,” Bundushar nods, then, after muttering a couple of words to the security guards, he beckons Bilbo: “follow me, please.”

“I...” Bilbo tries weakly, unable to tear his eyes away from Gandalf, who keeps smiling and chattering at the two unflinching well-dressed mountains leading him away through the garden.

“Please,” Smaug repeats, arm outstretched to lead the way, glaring at Bilbo without a single hint of his previous kindness and joviality, however feigned they both always were.

Bilbo swallows hard and nods feebly, and Bundushar leads him back inside the villa, and oh god, he really is going to die and be left to rot in a closet, or better yet, the man will order his lackeys to, to stash him inside the trunk of a car and drive to the river and dump his lifeless body in the water, never to be found...

“A drink?” Smaug offers, but all Bilbo can think about is the fact that they're alone in a small drawing room away from the crowd, and two security guards join them quickly, closing the door behind them and standing by it, faces like chiseled stone.

“I-I've had enough, I think,” Bilbo replies feebly, “look, if this is about-”

But Bundushar stops him abruptly, raising his hand sternly.

“I like you,” he says simply, “you're smart, and very eager to learn, and I can appreciate that. I'd _hate_ to see you associate with all the wrong people.”

_'Well, I'm associating with_ you!' Bilbo wants to cry, but all he manages is a dry gulp.

“How do you know Doctor Grey, _really?_ ” Smaug inquires.

“I... he told you,” Bilbo offers, “he was my History prof back at Bree, but that was more than fifteen years ago! I have only seen him once or twice since, and _believe me,_ I was utterly shocked to find him here!”

Bundushar glares at him with unbearable intensity.

“You're telling me you didn't know he was in Erebor?”

“Of course not! How could I?”

“And you only know him as a... a high school teacher.”

“Yes!” Bilbo nods fervently, “what else would he be? ...Oh, you did say he changed careers. What does that mean, exactly?”

Smaug sighs profoundly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well...” he declares with a healthy dose of drama, “most people in our country know him as a spy.”

“A _spy?!_ ” Bilbo exclaims in utter (and very genuine) disbelief, “Gandalf? Surely not!”

But as ridiculous as the notion is, when one entertains it for long enough, it starts making some twisted sort of sense. _Acquainted with the royal family..._ Oh, god. Bilbo wonders what _other_ royal family Gandalf's acquainted with.

“I swear,” he says earnestly, “I didn't know. I just bumped into him in the crowd, and before I could get past my initial surprise, you found us.”

“He didn't say why he was here?” Bundushar wants to know, the suspicious glare subsiding a bit, but still, one wrong word and Bilbo could end up on the wrong side of his patience very quickly, he's sure.

“I... I think he said something about hiking?” he blabbers helplessly, “apparently there was a new mithril vein discovered in the mountains? I believed him, I mean he always was the one for... adventures...”

“Yes,” Smaug scoffs, “that does sound like him.”

“Forgive me, but am I... am I in trouble?” Bilbo opts for his most politely worried tone – he doesn't even have to try too hard.

Smaug smiles, but Bilbo would much prefer an angry scowl, anything but the highly disconcerting and largely intimidating, unnatural curve of the lips of a man who doesn't smile to please, but to threaten.

“Well, that depends,” he replies calmly, “do you plan to keep this information to yourself?”

“Oh... oh, of course!” Bilbo states quickly, “I have no interest in, in... well, telling anyone! Trust me, I'd prefer it if I _didn't_ know any of this!”

“That I can believe,” Bundushar smirks.

“B-besides, I leave for France next week,” Bilbo reminds him, “and I, I... really, I want _nothing_ to do with this. Please. I'll try to forget it as soon as I can.”

“That would be best, yes,” Bundushar nods curtly, “but remember one thing – if you do decide to share any of this with someone, I do have ways of... keeping you quiet.”

_Oh sweet Jesus._

“I understand,” he peeps.

“You really don't, but I'm glad you try. Do enjoy your stay in France. I will keep in touch.”

Bundushar expects him to leave now, Bilbo realizes – the guards simply hold the door open for him, and wait.

“I, erm... well, it was a, a pleasure, really,” he says breathlessly, offering his hand to Smaug, as silly as the gesture is in light of what they just said to each other.

The man glares at it for a bit, but shakes it nevertheless.

“Goodbye for now, Mister Kent.”

“...Goodbye, and good luck, with the elections, and... everything,” Bilbo stammers, making his way towards the door in the meantime, doing his best to withstand Bundushar's deathly glare.

Once he's out, the two security guards join him, each at one side, and it takes him but a second to understand he's being escorted to his car. He's not going to complain about that, that's for sure – there's far too many people everywhere for them to shoot him in the back of his head without making a fuss, right?

He almost dissolves in relief at the sight of his red Fiat, and clambers inside as swiftly as possible. The gate is already opening for him, and he takes care not to press the gas to the floor and speed out. He drives calmly for a good while until he deems the distance between him and the villa agreeable, stops the car and collapses forehead first on the steering wheel, groaning a desperate 'Oh my _god._ ' His hands are trembling. He takes a couple of long, deep breaths to calm down, keeping his eyes shut, gripping the steering wheel for dear life. _Well done, Bilbo Baggins. Really, so many swell ideas in one day. You could be dead this time tomorrow. You could-_

He startles upright and swears very profoundly when someone knocks on his car window. Gandalf is there, smiling, his fingers fluttering in a small wave, and Bilbo ponders driving away, leaving him standing on the curb, but then he rolls down the window, giving Gandalf his best deadpan stare.

“You're alive,” the man remarks cheerfully.

“Yes, it's a miracle,” Bilbo says dryly.

“You look like you might enjoy that coffee we talked about earlier,” Gandalf continues with the infuriatingly chipper tone, “no? Ice cream, maybe, to battle the heat? There's a lovely little store not far from here, if you'll just let me...”

He invites himself inside Bilbo's car before he can stop him, adjusting his seat and muttering about 'bloody Italians and their teeny tiny shopping-bag cars', while Bilbo just glares ahead, his anger rising steadily.

“It's right around the corner, right there,” Gandalf points, “come now, I dare say neither of us are used to this heat.”

Bilbo starts up the car without a word or a look in Gandalf's direction, silent for the duration of the short ride to the pretty candy store, silent save for making his order for the biggest milkshake possible (making Gandalf pay, figuratively or otherwise), silent when they sit by a small round table.

“They tell me you're a spy,” he says finally, as icily as possible, and Gandalf merely leans back in his chair, eying him with the faintest hint of a smile.

“And you believe them? Whoever 'they' are?”

“Well, it would certainly explain all the secrecy, and you appearing out of the blue, and, and knowing more than you let on, and... god dammit, will you just _tell me what's going on?!_ ”

That turns the few heads that share the small room with them, and Bilbo sighs, shoulders slumping, and rakes his hand through his hair.

“My, my,” Gandalf snickers, “you've been doing so wonderful so far. What's changed?”

“What do you _mean_ what's changed?!” Bilbo hisses, “ _besides_ me engaging in... all this? I came here to be a _tutor,_ Gandalf, not some bloody clandestine operative. Come to think of it, finding out that _you_ are one might have been the last straw, you know. ...I need to make a call.”

“If it is to Mister Ibindikhel, you needn't worry – I brought him up to speed,” Gandalf states simply.

“You...” Bilbo sighs weakly, and when Gandalf's only response is a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of a smile, he inhales sharply, slurps on his milkshake, and says very very strictly, “I want answers. _Now._ ”

“Then ask questions,” Gandalf grins, “but I think it's fair to warn you that occasionally, my answers might be along the lines of 'you don't want to know'.”

“Let me decide that for myself, would you?” Bilbo grumbles, “I'm pretty sure I want to know everything.”

 

What follows is quite possibly the most infuriating, confusing fifteen minutes of Bilbo's life. He learns that yes, Gandalf has known about Bard's plan for quite some time, but he doesn't learn how. And yes, Gandalf has... postponed his career in education quite some time ago, but when Bilbo asks who he's working for, he simply says 'an interested third party'.

“And does this 'interested third party' have a name?” Bilbo demands, swirling his shake with his straw somewhat absentmindedly.

“The British royal family,” Gandalf offers very clearly, but Bilbo still hopes he misheard, somehow.

“So, erm... what? The MI6?” he tries somewhat weakly – he still can't really believe he's saying these words, or discussing this at all.

“If putting a name to it helps, then yes.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Gandalf smiles, and it's a tad more somber than Bilbo would expect, “that nothing is ever as simple as it seems. I'm really very sorry to have dragged you into this, you know. But all you need to know is... you're safe. The King is safe. I'll stay in touch, and I'll be keeping an eye on you – you don't need to see Smaug Bundushar ever again in your life, if you wish. I'll do my best to keep you out of harm's way.”

“ _Harm's way?_ ” Bilbo scoffs, “is there any harm coming my way?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Bilbo gazes out of the window – it's late afternoon now, and he can't wait to be back at the Palace, and ask the Princes how their day went, and have a drink with Bofur and the others, and all in all just act like none of this ever happened.

“Alright,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling very tired, “one last question.”

“Shoot.”

“When you offered me this job,” Bilbo looks Gandalf directly in the eye, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, “had you already known about what Bard was attempting? Did you bring me to Erebor knowing that I would eventually get all tangled up in all this?”

Gandalf sighs, rubbing his forehead, and the smile he grants Bilbo then seems quite exhausted as well.

“I've always had great confidence in your abilities,” he says unusually softly, “there's more to you than meets the eye. More than you give yourself credit for, even.”

“That's it, then,” Bilbo exhales quietly, “I'll take that as a yes. I'm going home now.”

Gandalf straightens up.

“Back to England?”

Bilbo scoffs at him.

“What do you mean, back to England?” he says incredulously, “home. As in, back to the Palace.”

“Oh,” Gandalf's lips quirk in a smile, “oh, I see. Yes, yes of course. You'll be safer there than anywhere else. Good.”

“Good,” Bilbo repeats dryly, glaring at him for a moment to try and find at least a sliver of anything else, anything more genuine, than the horribly self-satisfied smirk, in his face.

“Well then, goodbye.”

“Take care, Bilbo.”

“Hmm.”

 

He walks out of the little cafe feeling strangely empty, a stark juxtaposition to the fright and exhilaration that overwhelmed him not so long ago. He drives home struggling with a strange dullness in his chest. Gandalf has always been someone to rely on – an enigma, yes, but that used to be something to joke about, his stories exciting and somehow larger than life. This is... personal, and terrifying, and depressing, all at once. Bilbo feels betrayed, naturally, but he also feels all his zest for adventure leaving him.

He listens to Fili and Kili describing their day in great detail later, and his very bones are finally starting to relax.

“...and then the French girl's horse got spooked by the applause, and she almost fell! But we helped her calm him down, didn't we, Fili?”

“Yeah, and he was really big, too! But we gave him some sweets, and then she came in second, and thanked us, and told us she'd send us a letter from back home!”

“And then, and then at the _ragel_ _,_ erm...”

“The banquet.”

“Oh, right! A bird flew right into the cake!”

“A bird?” Bilbo chuckles.

Fili is lounging on his bed while Kili is wrestling with his breeches, jumping around and trying to wriggle out of them, both of them waving their arms as they tell the story, and Bilbo just sits in the middle of it all, and a great smile spreads over his face. _This_ is what he wants, and needs. This hectic peace by the boys' side. He promises himself to stay out of trouble, for their sakes at least. His heart sinks when there's a knock on the door, and after the Princes exclaim 'Come in!' in unison, the King himself enters.

“I thought I might find you here,” he smiles at Bilbo, effectively melting all his residual bitterness away, “I think the boys told you about their day in great detail, didn't they? How was yours?”

“Compared to birds landing in cakes?” Bilbo chuckles, “rather uneventful.”

It turns out His Majesty wants to discuss the upcoming trip Bilbo and the boys will take with Dori Haban and his little brother to their cottage in the mountains, and their conversation flows easily enough, about this or that entirely unimportant detail, and Bilbo is grateful, endlessly grateful. He hates the pinch of guilt he can't get rid of no matter how hard he tries whenever he speaks to the King these days, though, and he does his best to push it as far back into his subconscious as it'll go.

Besides, it seems that he'll be able to remain in blissful ignorance for a while longer. Aside from a rather excited phone call from Bard ( _'Everything is happening at once, I've got so much work to do, I'll keep you posted, thank you so much for doing this!_ ), everything is surprisingly peaceful, and Bilbo is allowed to forget about his escapades at Gundabad, at least for a while.

Equally as excited as the boys, he drives them to the mountains later that week, the little Fiat overflowing with suitcases, and Fili's drawing supplies, and Kili's board games, oh and not to forget, the luxurious box for Muzmith the kitten, who doesn't seem in the least fazed by the increasingly rocky roads the car trudges on.

They are of course followed by the black sedan of the Palace security, but Fili and Kili got used to the guards in Marseille, and so they don't protest in the slightest, and get a good laugh watching Tom and Bert haul their suitcases out of the car when they reach their destination.

Bilbo inhales the fresh air thirstily – they are high up, it's a few degrees colder, and the cottage is surrounded by beautiful meadows and fields leading down to the picturesque village below, or up to the forest on the mountainside. All those beautiful photos Bilbo would admire when he was younger, of the Swiss Alps, or the Italian villages with the driveways curving in thrilling u-turns, don't hold a candle to Erebor, really.

For his part, he's perfectly happy to spend the days reading and just lounging side by side with Dori Haban, who proves to be excellent, if talkative, company, while his brother Ori and the Princes scour the surrounding nature, or play football, or go for 'photo walks', as Fili calls them, accompanied by the two guards, safe and happy. There's barely any Internet connection in the house, and no TV, and Bilbo doesn't mind it in the slightest. A week completely cut off from reality is the most he could wish for, honestly – they spend their evenings playing cards or tentatively singing along to Ori's guitar, instead of watching the news, and the mornings taking their breakfast outside, listening to the chirping of the birds and bubbling of the nearby stream. As far as Bilbo is concerned, he could spend the rest of his life like this, and the week passes too quickly for his liking. Hundreds of photos and one beautiful painting of the village in sunset richer, they return home nevertheless, both the Princes and Bilbo wonderfully refreshed. Fili and Kili did nothing but run about and exhaust themselves properly so that Bilbo had no trouble tucking them in every night, and as for Bilbo himself, he didn't receive one phone call from either Gandalf, Bard, or Smaug Bundushar, thank god. Of course, making or receiving calls required walking far into the meadows above the village to catch any sort of signal, and Bilbo only ever did so to call Balin with a short daily report, but still. It's almost as if none of the dreadful things weighing him down never happened.

 

It lasts a day. Precisely twenty four hours. The last twenty four hours of peace and quiet in his life. As soon as he makes sure the Princes have unpacked when they return, he heads for the staff cafeteria to meet with his friends and catch up, and they greet him very cheerfully.

“You were on TV!” Bofur tells him first thing after he describes the holiday.

“I was... what?” Bilbo chuckles.

“Don't worry, we recorded it for you!”

“It was a talk show His Majesty was on,” Balin explains further, “he only mentioned you in passing, but it wouldn't be Gabilaz if he didn't latch onto it immediately.” 

“Who?” Bilbo asks, watching Bofur and Bombur struggle with the TV's settings to find the recording.

“Theo Gabilaz,” Balin clarifies, “he's a very famous talk show host, I'm surprised you have not heard of him yet.”

“They call him the Ereborean Oprah,” Bofur grins.

“ _You_ call him that,” Bombur notes, “no one else in this country watches Oprah.”

“Guilty pleasures, guilty pleasures,” Bofur shrugs, “ah, here we go! Just let me skip ahead to the _really_ important part...”

“It's in Khuzdul,” Balin says, “but basically, Gabilaz asked His Majesty about the Palace's increase in... social activity, and the numerous public appearances of the Princes, and asked him what was behind the betterment of his relationship with his nephews...”

“And he said you!” Bofur finishes.

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs.

There's something... something he should be remembering. He stares at the TV, and it's all surprisingly professional, Theo Gabilaz (a man of _massive_ proportions, and a great talent for comedy, Bilbo understands) sitting behind a desk while the King is seated on a couch, resembling all those famous American counterparts. Though Bilbo is sure His Majesty would not attend at all if Mister Gabilaz were, in fact, the Ereborean Oprah...

It doesn't hit him for a while, because he's too busy blushing as Bofur and Balin translate Thorin's words for him, about how he's a great influence on the Princes, and a great influence altogether, and then... His face pops up on the screen. It's a photo of Bilbo accompanying the Princes for that library opening back in... what was it? June? Yes, they both held his hands that day, and grinned and told him to smile and 'look nice!', even though there weren't that many paps and journalists at all, and... _His face was on the telly._ For everyone to see. For... _everyone_ to see. 

His growing horror must show in his face, because Balin asks 'Is everything alright?', and Bofur pats his shoulder, laughing: “Don't worry, this doesn't mean you're a celebrity or anything! Unless you want to be, of course!”

But Bilbo barely hears them. His chest feels hollow, and his heart hammers against his ribcage faster and faster. The photo of him is onscreen for about thirty seconds, no more, and yet...

“Excuse me, I'll be right back,” he manages, his voice shaky and lifeless, and gets up and all but bolts out of the room, ignoring their questions.

It takes him a good long while to scroll through his contacts on his phone and dial Gandalf – his hands are actually shaking. Oh, he should have known, he should. Have. Known...

“Gandalf!” he barks out.

“Bilbo! It's good to hear from you!”

“I was on the telly!” Bilbo's voice falters, “my face! It was on television!”

The other end of the line goes silent for a bit.

“Yes, I know,” Gandalf replies then, quietly.

“And?” Bilbo cries desperately, “does Bundushar know? Do you think he saw me? He must have seen me!”

“Almost definitely, yes.”

“ _Almost definitely?!_ How can you be so calm about this?!” Bilbo exclaims, not caring in the slightest for the high pitch of his voice.

His palms are sweating, and he's pretty sure his heart is going to give up on him and burst any second now.

“Bilbo, it's alright.”

“No, it's _not alright!_ It's everything _but_ alright, it's so, so...-”

“ _Listen to me._ ”

It's quiet, but stern enough to make Bilbo shut up. He runs his hand across his face, plastering it over his mouth and inhaling sharply.

“I'm listening,” he mumbles through his fingers.

“I've been keeping an eye on both you and Bundushar,” Gandalf explains simply, “and there's been no unusual activity from him since that show aired, I promise. I'm sure he knows you're a fraud, but for some reason, he's decided to keep that information to himself for the time being.”

“Why?” Bilbo exhales.

“I don't know. But I need to you to stay calm, stay at the Palace, and call me _the second_ Bundushar makes contact with you, is that understood?”

“I...”

“You're the safest at the _Hurmulkezer,_ believe me,” Gandalf says softly, “you'll be alright, I swear it.”

“Gandalf...”

“There's nothing to worry about, Bilbo.”

“Are you joking? There is _so much_ to worry about.”

“Just stay put. I'll call you whenever there's any news, and _you_ need to call me whenever there's any news on _your_ end. That's all, understood?”

“....Understood,” Bilbo groans, “I hate this, though.”

“I know,” Gandalf says, and Bilbo can feel him smiling, wherever he is.

“Goodbye, Bilbo,” he adds, “stay safe. Everything is under control.”

“Hmm. Right. Goodbye, I suppose. Hopefully not forever?”

“Keep that sense of humor.”

And with that, Gandalf ends the call, and Bilbo shudders, sudden cold overcoming him, and eventually returns to his friends, fending off their questions with 'I just felt so nauseous out of the blue, honestly, I don't know what came over me!', and laughing along with them when they joke about his newly discovered popularity, doing his best not to dissolve into a puddle of anxiety.

 

And those twenty four hours? Well, that's exactly how long he manages to 'stay safe', as Gandalf told him.

He spends the day with the Princes, which manages to chase away the worries, or at least dull the edges of them a little bit, and tucking them into bed that night and reading one of the last chapters of the third Artemis Fowl book, he's almost as blissfully ignorant as he was when he came back from the holiday. Perhaps Smaug Bundushar didn't see the talk show at all. Perhaps all will, after all, be well. (Perhaps fooling himself is what's he's best at, ha.) And when he finds Thorin waiting for him in the hallway outside the boys' room, he decides to believe it wholeheartedly, at least for now.

They exchange vague pleasantries as they walk towards the large staircase in the Main Hall where they'll part ways, and Bilbo can't help but giggle when he mentions the talk show and is granted the sight of Thorin's face contorting in poorly concealed horror.

“Oh, you... you saw that, did you?” he says somewhat weakly.

“They recorded it for me, yes,” Bilbo grins.

“Right. Well. I'm... I didn't...” the King fumbles over words uncharacteristically awkwardly, “I didn't mean to... You must understand, Theo Gabilaz always blows things out of proportion, and I...”

“It's alright, really,” Bilbo snickers, patting Thorin's arm before he can stop himself, “I found it very... flattering. Thank you.”

Only then does he realize what he just did, freezing and all but tripping, but his little gesture doesn't seem to matter to the King. His eyes do dart to Bilbo's hand on his arm, but his smile never leaves him.

“I'm glad to hear that,” he replies, “I might have gushed over you a little extensively, but, well... you deserve it.”

… _Ah. Oh, wow._

“T-thank you,” Bilbo manages, “you give me too much credit.”

“I beg to differ,” His Majesty smiles, and they're now standing in a blissfully empty hallway, and Bilbo's heart is fluttering in his chest, and what was he ever worried about, again?

“In fact, I don't think you're given _enough_ credit,” Thorin continues quietly, taking a step closer, and Bilbo's mouth very nearly hangs agape.

“I...” he manages, but Thorin is smiling still, and he is also closer now than he was two seconds ago, and Bilbo's repertoire of quick responses seems to have picked this very moment to run dry.

“Sometimes I ask myself where we would be without you,” the King murmurs (and _oh dear lord, that's his hand on your wrist now, and you're actually going to snog him, aren't you?!_ ),“and it's too unpleasant to even imagine-”

They're interrupted by... a sound. It's a sort of _whoom,_ deep and barely audible, as if some sort of massive computer is being switched off, and a very similar shocked gasp escapes them both when the lights in the hallway flicker and die, enveloping them in utter darkness.

“ _Kulhu_ _îzunmurkh_ _?_ ” Thorin mutters under his breath at the same time that Bilbo breathes out: “What on earth...?” The King rushes to the staircase, and Bilbo follows him, and they see that the whole Palace has sunken into black, as if someone flipped a big switch for every single source of light at once.

Bilbo's phone rings in the pocket of his trousers then, and the sound startles them both. They exchange a fleeting, worried look, and Bilbo fishes it out. The screen is shining with 'Number Blocked', and Bilbo gapes at it for a moment before mustering the courage to answer it.

“H-hello?” he peeps.

“Bilbo,” sighs a familiar voice.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo exclaims, and Thorin shoots him a surprised glance, but then his own phone rings, and he picks up immediately, uttering 'Dwalin! _Kulhu hanakun?_ '.

“Where are you?” Gandalf demands.

“The lights just went off!” Bilbo hisses urgently, “all of them!”

“Yes, I know, I saw. Where are you?”

“You – you _saw?_ Are you here somewhere? _What's going on?!_ ”

“Bilbo, listen to me very carefully,” Gandalf says sternly, and Bilbo swallows the stream of frightened questions building up in his throat, “where are you? Are you anywhere near the ground floor?”

“N-no, I'm... on the third floor, actually,” Bilbo replies.

The King finishes his call and stands before Bilbo, raising a quizzical eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest.

“That's not too good. Do you know where the King is?” Gandalf inquires further.

“He's... he's right here with me, actually,” Bilbo stammers.

“Excellent. Put him on now.”

“But, Gandalf...”

“Everything's going to be alright, as long as you do what I say. Now let me speak to the King.”

Bilbo exhales shakily, and hands the phone to Thorin, who takes it somewhat warily, his eyes never leaving Bilbo.

“Doctor Grey,” he says curtly, and Bilbo's heart beats faster and faster as Thorin's features grow more and more worried.

“I see,” the King says quietly, “...no, not far. Yes, of course. How long? ...Understood. Yes, he's already on it. Yes. Yes, I know. Take this and follow me.”

The last sentence is meant for Bilbo as the King hands him the phone back. Bilbo puts it to his ear and hurries with Thorin back the way they came from, while Gandalf mutters instructions into his ear, interrupted by him conversing with someone on his end.

“There are two squads of armed men coming your way,” he tells Bilbo, no sugarcoating it, “the ones that are on your side have the symbol of an eagle on their back. Do _not_ engage anyone else. Your job is to wake up the Princes and lead them to safety.”

“Can't we just... take care of the bad guys and let the boys sleep? They'll never know!” Bilbo suggests breathlessly.

“No, we need them, and you, out of the Palace as soon as possible.”

“But why?”

“Just trust me, Bilbo.”

“I trust you, but-”

All air is knocked out of his lungs then as Thorin stops him abruptly, his arm across Bilbo's chest, and Bilbo has enough wits about him to keep quiet. They hear numerous footsteps, muffled by the carpet on the floor, and Thorin looks around frantically, but both him and Bilbo know there is nowhere to go without attracting attention. Bilbo's heart almost stops when he sees the first gun, but fortunately, it belongs to Dwalin, who has three more guards with him.

“There you are,” he exhales curtly, “lights should be back up in no time.”

“Is that the Head of Security?” Gandalf inquires, “let me speak to him.”

Bilbo hands the phone to Dwalin, who glares at it highly suspiciously, but takes it anyway.

“Who am I speaking to?” he barks, motioning his men to spread out and secure the perimeter, or whatever they call it these days, but after a few words from Gandalf, he beckons everybody to start moving again.

They reach the floor the boy's rooms are on safely, but a lone man appears on the far side of the hallway, and before Bilbo can so much as squeak, Dwalin shoots him, the silencer attached to his gun muffling the gunshot to nothing but a sharp whiz. Bilbo yelps and stumbles, but the King's hand on his shoulder steadies him, squeezing briefly, Thorin granting him a short glance and a nod, and somehow, it's enough for Bilbo to keep breathing, at least.

Two more security guards are standing in front of the door to the Princes' bedrooms, and they report to Dwalin while Bilbo and Thorin rush inside. Fili is roused easily, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, blinking at Bilbo blearily, but the King doesn't waste his time with waking Kili, simply scoops him up in his arms.

“We must go now,” Bilbo tells Fili quietly, urgently.

“What? Why?” the boy mumbles, and Bilbo decides the truth is the simplest solution right now.

“There are bad men in the Palace, and we must leave.”

Fili's eyes grow at least three sizes.

“What? What bad men?”

“ _A_ _khûnith_ , come on,” Thorin demands, gently but firmly, “ _ashurukh ki ghelekh_ _._ Just grab Bilbo's hand and let's go.”

Fili looks from him to Bilbo, who nods and stands up, offering his hand.

“Let's go.”

“But I don't have shoes!”

“You don't need shoes, it's summer,” Bilbo manages a chuckle while Thorin nurses Kili in one arm, Bilbo's phone with Gandalf on the line pressed to his ear, “now come on. We'll be back here in no time, alright? I promise. But we must go now.”

At last, the boy grabs his hand and lets Bilbo steer him outside, muttering about still wearing his pajamas. Dwalin is about to move on ahead, when Thorin stops them all with a curt gesture of his hand, listening to what Gandalf has to say, then handing over the phone to the Head of Security.

“Bilbo,” the King says, and at any other point, Bilbo would be thrilled that he actually called him by name – now it just makes the situation all the more urgent.

“Take him,” Thorin says, moving Kili from his arms to Bilbo's, the boy barely stirring.

“W-what's going on?” Bilbo mutters uneasily.

“You'll follow Dwalin's men, and Doctor Grey will lead you out of here.”

“You're not coming?” Bilbo and Fili exclaim in unison, and the King's features soften, and he cups Fili's cheek shortly.

“I'm not,” he says quietly, “you'll be fine without me. I know it. Bilbo will take care of you, and you'll take care of your brother, alright? _Sakh zu masigin ghiluz_ _._ ”

“But, _Indâd_... _”_

“It's going to be alright, Fili,” Thorin smiles, “ _Gand_ _._ ”

“Thorin,” Dwalin states then, “let's move.”

He motions two of his men to take place beside Bilbo and the boys, and hands Bilbo the phone.

“Keep quiet, listen to what the man has to say, you'll be fine,” he tells him, and Bilbo nods absentmindedly.

“I...”

They hear a gunshot then, much louder than the one before, and Fili squeals, clutching onto Bilbo's arm.

“ _Buzun!_ ” Dwalin orders his men, and one of them takes Bilbo by the shoulder firmly, ushering him on.

He manages one last glance at Thorin, opening his mouth to say something, but then there is more gunfire, and they break into a run, and he has to concentrate on handling both Fili dangling off his arm, and the weight of Kili still sleeping, his head bobbing, not to mention not dropping the phone.

“You need to get to the ground floor,” Gandalf orders, breathless himself, clearly hurrying somewhere, “I'll be waiting there for you, by the exit to the backyard, by the staff building, do you understand? Get there as fast as possible!”

“What about the King?”

“Just go, Bilbo. Go!”

And so he goes. The Palace is still horribly quiet and utterly dark, and Bilbo does his best not to run out of breath, and always keep the guards' backs in sight. They stop once or twice, listening and hearing nothing, and they reach the ground floor fairly quickly without any incident, except for Kili waking up and panicking for a moment before both Bilbo and Fili calm him down – the older Prince is handling the situation exceptionally well, his grip now moving from Bilbo's arm to Kili's little hand, his face determined, if frightened, and he doesn't cry or complain, just marches on.

Another man jumps into the hallway right in front of them then, and they all yelp as one, before Bilbo sees the small red symbol of an eagle on the back of his bulletproof vest.

“Follow me,” the soldier spits curtly, and leads them out of the Palace, onto the backyard with the tall sakura tree, and they see a car parked by the remnants of the ancient wall on the far end, and more men standing by it, rifles in their hands, and among them Gandalf, looking almost ridiculously out of place in his simple shirt and... dear god, flip flops.

“Great job,” he nods to Bilbo, “inside, now.”

Bilbo ushers the Princes into the car, making sure Fili helps Kili with the seatbelt.

“Care to tell me what _the hell_ is going on?” he hisses at Gandalf.

“No time,” the man replies, then ignores him for a while and utters a few short orders to his men (are they his men? Oh, does Bilbo even want to know?).

“What about the King?” Bilbo wants to know again, casting worried looks to the Palace, a chill creeping up his spine despite the warmth of the night's breeze.

“He'll be fine, but we must go now. Move out!”

At that order, the whole squad hurry back towards the Palace, and Gandalf beckons to Bilbo 'Let's go!' and climbs into the driver's seat. A pained sigh escapes Bilbo's lips, and he's about to join him in the front, when he notices Kili is sobbing, and he opens the door to the backseat, climbing in with the Princes, struggling a bit, but finally settling in the middle, one arm around Kili, who sniffs into his shirt, and the other hand grabbing Fili's, who squeezes it hard and stares out of the window, his chin a bit wobbly.

“Everybody in?” Gandalf asks a bit too cheerfully, “excellent.”

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as it speeds down the driveway and to the main gate, which opens when they reach it, and slides shut immediately after them, even though there's no one in the control booth. Bilbo steals one last look at the Palace before they drive away, and it makes his heart sink, the white marble still illuminated by the halogens, but the insides ominously pitch black.

“Where are we going?” Fili asks quietly.

“A very safe place,” Gandalf replies calmly, “a house in the mountains. Your Uncle used to go there when he was your age.”

“And when is he coming?”

Gandalf grants Bilbo a short look through the rear-view mirror, before saying: “Soon. Very soon.”, and Bilbo manages an encouraging smile for Fili.

“Try to go back to sleep,” he says gently, “the drive will take a while. We'll be fine, and your Uncle will be fine, I promise.”

Fili says nothing, simply resumes glaring out of the window, eventually resting his temple against it and closing his eyes. Kili's sniffling subsides as well, and soon both boys are asleep, and Bilbo allows himself a moment of weakness, hiding his crumpling face in his hands.

“You did a good job,” Gandalf offers simply.

“Just tell me they will all be safe,” Bilbo groans.

“Yes, of course,” Gandalf affirms without a hint of doubt, “everything is taken care of. We're going to the royal family's summer residence now – it hasn't been used in years, but it's remote, and easy to defend. You'll be fine. The King should join you tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan.”

Bilbo shudders at 'easy to defend', but his relief at hearing about Thorin is much stronger.

“Why did he have to go a separate way?” he asks, “and what... what happened at all, in the first place?”

“It's not important, what matters is that you're all safe,” Gandalf says in a tone that doesn't allow for further questioning, “as for what happened... I'm still willing to utilize the 'you don't want to know' answer, if you're willing to accept it.”

“You know I'm not.”

“Very well,” Gandalf sighs, and it is a proper sigh, and even what little of his face Bilbo can see through the rear-view mirror looks incredibly exhausted then, “it was a very well planned attack. When I said we didn't see nothing out of the ordinary in Bundushar's activities, I was speaking the truth – this escaped us completely.”

“Those were his men, then,” Bilbo says weakly.

“Yes.”

“My face was on the telly.”

Gandalf closes his eyes for a split second, hanging his head.

“Yes.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say more, but he's too overwhelmed – the horror of the realization, and the guilt, oh the guilt. He puts both his hands over his mouth, tears prickling in his eyes, but Kili stirs and mumbles in his sleep when he loses his little something to hold on to, and Bilbo soothes his head, even though he's afraid he might actually start screaming if he doesn't keep his own mouth shut by force.

“This is not your fault,” Gandalf tells him, but a lifeless scoff escapes Bilbo.

“You're joking, right? This is _all_ my fault. Oh god, I can't believe it. They came for me. ...They actually came for me.”

* * *

**Dictionary:**

_Alùgab bijebrukmâ mahkheremkhi ku mâzyungmâ_ \- The language we choose best describes the people we despise.

_Ashurukh ki ghelekh_ \- Everything’s alright

_Furkhi?_ \- He’s alive?

_Gand_ \- I promise.

_Kulhu îzunmurkh?_ \- What the hell?

_Ragel_ \- Banquet

_Sakh zu masigin ghiluz_ \- I’ll see you soon. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lack of Bagginshield, lots of stuff I never planned on including in the first place, AND a cliffhanger. You're welcome to yell at me, I guess. Seriously though, this was originally supposed to be a short-ish fluffy thing, and it has somehow evolved into... this. I know not how. I promise I won't leave you with this cliffhanger for long, and the next chapter is DEFINITELY going to be more intense our otp-wise.


	12. Chapter 12

They arrive in the middle of the night, and Bilbo has absolutely no idea where they are – they had left the safety of the wide, well-lit driveways relatively early on, retreating onto increasingly narrower roads leading into the countryside, passing villages like small islands of light in the utter darkness, until they delved into the forests, and began to ascend the mountains. It's just trees and more trees from then on, popping up in the headlights, eerie and foreign to Bilbo's eyes. Gandalf stops the car seemingly in the middle of nowhere and gets out with not so much as a reassuring word, and Bilbo notices the vague outlines of a tall gate ahead.

It creaks and squeaks as Gandalf opens it, and he drives the car through, gets back outside and closes it again, all wordlessly, and Bilbo's too dazed to comment, anyway. They continue on a questionable road, the stones under the wheels crunching, the rocking of the vehicle rousing the Princes. Kili whines and scrambles closer to Bilbo, who wraps his arm around his shoulders, and Fili rubs his eyes, trying to see anything in the utter pitch black outside.

“Are we here?” he mumbles sleepily.

“I think so,” Bilbo sighs.

“We are,” Gandalf affirms that, “don't worry, Your Highness, there will be a nice bed waiting for you to go right back to sleep.”

Still clueless about their surroundings, Bilbo gulps nervously when the car stops, and he climbs out right after Fili, who is suddenly too excited for his own good. In the darkness looms a two-story house, and Bilbo is sure it must be rather beautiful, what with its wooden veranda, and the round windows on the second floor and everything, but really, it all only serves to worry him even more.

“Is anyone waiting for us?” he asks after he helps Kili get out of the car, and scoops him up in his arms.

“There's a groundskeeper, he'll... show up in the morning, I'm sure,” Gandalf offers somewhat vaguely, “come on inside.”

He fishes out a bundle of keys, all very ancient-looking, from god knows where, and leads them to the house, and a tingle dances up Bilbo's spine when he peeks in through the windows and sees almost nothing of the interior, just indiscernible shapes, and his own reflection, looking just as haunted as he feels.

The door clicks open surprisingly quietly, and Gandalf ushers them all inside – it's much colder than the summer night breeze, probably courtesy of the solid stone walls, and the Princes both shudder, Fili looking around curiously while Kili moves from Bilbo to clutch on his brother's sleeve. They are in what seems to be a rather glorious hallway, the ceiling up high, paintings and even antlers on the wood-lined walls, and a broad staircase ahead, but Bilbo's not entirely sure he will ever be in the right frame of mind to admire any of it.

“We'll have electricity in the morning,” Gandalf utters to him, “no point in fumbling around for fuses now.”

He fishes out a flashlight out of nowhere then, and the column of cool, bluish light leads them up the staircase, their steps muffled by a thick carpet, the boys sticking close to Bilbo (who isn't any less frightened than them, if he's honest).

“ _I_ _zdîn muradûnh_ _?_ ” Kili peeps, and Bilbo squeezes his shoulder, steering him ahead.

“No ghosts,” he opts for the most encouraging tone he can manage, “don't worry.”

“Here we are,” Gandalf declares almost inappropriately cheerfully, “the royal bedroom. Well, one of them. Your Uncle used to sleep here when he was no older than you, I believe!”

The room is vast, and spacious, and cold, and yet again, Bilbo's sure its beauty will be better admired when it's not sunken in complete darkness.

“It's freezing,” Fili whimpers, still not even wearing any shoes, both boys eying the large double bed by the far wall very suspiciously.

Bilbo is grateful when his caretaking mode kicks in, and he goes about scouring the wardrobes and cupboards for any sort of blankets, and emerges victorious, ushering the Princes to climb into the bed resolutely.

“Keep this,” Gandalf hands him the flashlight, “I'll go downstairs to see what's what.”

“Are we... are we safe here?” Bilbo mutters discreetly when Fili and Kili are preoccupied with burrowing themselves in the blankets.

“Absolutely,” Gandalf nods, “it might not seem like it, but this place is a fort. You'll see in the morning. Join me when you're done here, and we'll talk.”

“I'd, I'd much rather stay with them tonight,” Bilbo says, “doesn't mean I don't still have a heap of questions, but right now, the three of us are all one odd sound away from freaking out. Or, at least I am, I assure you.”

Gandalf offers a smile and opens his mouth to say more, but then his phone buzzes, and Bilbo raises an eyebrow – he had expected this place not to have signal coverage at all. For all he knows, they might be somewhere high up in the Alps overlooking Switzerland, or something. Gandalf walks out of the room already beginning to mutter quickly, and Bilbo does his best to swallow his fears.

“Bedtime story, Bilbo,” Kili whimpers, and when Bilbo turns to them, his heart melts, despite everything – they're bundled close together in the entirely-too-large bed, almost drowning in the blankets, Kili's arms wrapped around his brother's arm like a substitute for a stuffed animal, his eyes closed, and even Fili's eyelids are drooping already.

“All the books are back at the Palace,' Bilbo tells them as gently as possible, sitting on the edge of the bed, “we'll have something to read tomorrow, I promise.”

“But... a story, _please,_ ” Kili murmurs, half-asleep, and Fili sighs “A fairytale?”, closing his eyes as well, and a painful knot lodges up in Bilbo's throat at the sight of them, so peaceful despite the circumstances, utterly oblivious to everything that's going on. He's almost overwhelmed by guilt, quite sure all his efforts at making the boys happier will have turned out in vain at some point very soon, and he clears his throat to chase it all away.

“Alright, erm... a fairytale,” he declares unsteadily, “I can do that. Let's see – do you know... chm. How about 'The Little Red Riding Hood'? Do you know that one?”

“No-o,” Fili mumbles, and Bilbo is quite certain it's a horrible choice, but fortunately, they're asleep before Little Red even makes it out of her house, and Bilbo is left sat there, staring at their calm, angelic faces, and he knows two things – first, that sleep will not come easily to him tonight – or any night, really – and two, the foul feeling of emptiness and dread that's settled in his gut will not be going away any time soon. He's desperate, and angry with himself, and so, so sorry, but above all, clueless. He ponders going downstairs and discussing everything with Gandalf, or even just walking out of the house and into the wilderness that surely surrounds it, and just disappearing, never coming back and sparing everyone the trouble he's bound to bring upon them... In the end, he settles for kicking off his shoes and stealing one blanket from the Princes' pile, curling up on himself on the bed – the boys barely take up one third of it, and besides, he couldn't bear to leave them, not now. Not ever. 

Sleep eludes him for what might be hours – he glares into the dark, worried about Fili and Kili, worried about Thorin, worried about _himself,_ his heart beating too quickly to let him calm down and fall asleep until he all but forces his eyes shut. The sounds of the boys shuffling and stirring, and the distant murmur of the breeze outside ruffling the leaves of whatever trees grow there, eventually manage to lull him into a very uneasy sleep, and his only blessing is that it is entirely dreamless.

 

He wakes up blissfully unaware of where he is, or how he found himself to be there in the first place, and only startles upright after a moment of staring at the empty bed next to him and figuring out what the crumpled blankets mean.

“Boys?” he calls, instinctively searching for a night stand with his glasses, before his reality hits him in full, and the previous night comes to him in bleary flashes and unpleasant jolts of emotions. Oh, and his glasses _are_ on his nightstand – in his apartment back at the Palace, of course. He groans and slides out of the bed, smoothing down his shirt and trousers, his only change of clothes for... who knows how long to come?

Only then does he really take in his surroundings. The royal bedroom, as Gandalf called it, is really very beautiful, if a bit dusty – the bed, the wardrobes, the bookshelves by the window, all made from rich, dark wood, the walls as well as the long curtains soft and cream colored, though somewhat faded. He discovers a couple of pictures on the desk when he goes to look out of the window, nothing more elaborate than stick figures and simplistic trees, and what looks like a rendition of the house itself, all on old, yellowing paper. They seem almost surreal in the stark cleanliness of the room, as if someone pulled them out to remind everyone about who used to occupy this room once and give it life. Bilbo wonders if, perhaps, the King himself drew them, as he trails his fingertips over them, through the layer of dust.

Only then does he notice the cars outside, black and sleek, and remembers there are more pressing matters at hand. He hurries out of the room, momentarily lost because he doesn't recognize the hallway in the slightest, but then he hears what can only be the Princes' laughter coming from somewhere vaguely to the left and below, and he marches to the staircase, only sparing swift looks to the numerous paintings lining the walls. A weak whimper escapes him when he sees that the main hall – splendid as it is bathing in golden morning light coming in through the main door and a sort of skylight up above on the ceiling – is also full of people. Gandalf stands surrounded by security guards, all tall men either in dark suits, or full tactical gear – Bilbo can't quite decide which looks more menacing. 

He lingers at the top of the staircase tentatively, until Gandalf notices him and waves to him rather cheerfully.

“Good morning, Bilbo, dear fellow!” he exclaims, “come on down – the boys are having their breakfast and it'll take minutes until everything's gone, at the rate they're going!”

Bilbo gulps and descends, feeling rather silly, being scrutinized by a whole unit of armed men.

“Gentlemen, this is Professor Baggins,” Gandalf declares, winking at Bilbo, “clearance level Beta, for now. You know everything you need to know, I believe – move out.”

They disappear quickly and efficiently, some striding out of the building, some trotting up the stairs past Bilbo without sparing a single look at him, and Gandalf is smiling faintly when Bilbo reaches him.

“Clearance level Beta?” he wonders.

“For now,” Gandalf nods.

“Are you ever going to tell me how a high school teacher comes to be a man in command of a hit squad?” Bilbo asks a bit faintly.

“They're not a _hit squad,_ ” Gandalf sniggers, “they're here to protect you. Secure the perimeter. Most of the time, you won't even know they're here, I promise.”

“That answers none of my questions,” Bilbo sighs, “and I have a lot. ...But I'm also hungry – where's that breakfast you were talking about?”

Gandalf smiles and leads on, and this really is the best way to go about all this, Bilbo decides – casually. Forgetting about the fact that there was an attack on the Palace he might have easily been the sole culprit of, and forgetting all the trouble that's sure to follow, if for just one morning, if only for the sake of not spooking the boys. ...Who seem anything _but_ spooked, really. Bilbo and Gandalf enter a small, cozy kitchen with an adjoined dining room, and find the Princes seated at a large wooden table laden with a _hoard_ of food, attempting to eat and sing along with the small radio at the same time, failing at both. The everpresent morning glow lends the scene an incredibly domestic hue. The image is shattered somewhat by the dark figures moving outside the windows, taking places strategically, but Bilbo does his best not to pay attention to that, same as the Princes.

“Good morning,” he declares, raising an eyebrow at Gandalf, who simply nods and motions for him to sit down.

“Good morning!” the boys repeat obediently, their attention not straying from the food for a second.

“Do you know this song?” Kili nudges Bilbo, and he does his best to concentrate on the peppy tune, and not the security guards conversing outside.

“I'm afraid not,” he mumbles.

“It's _K_ _anjinj_ _N_ _îdûrzud_ _!_ ” Kili explains happily, breaking into song spontaneously, swaying back and forth in his chair.

“Beorn told us we could listen to the radio if we ate all this,” Fili adds with a grin.

“A, a fair deal,” Bilbo stammers, “who's Beorn, then?”

“The groundskeeper,” Gandalf offers helpfully, “a nice man.”

“A _big_ man!” Kili exclaims, his fingers fluttering as high above his head as he can reach.

“Don't talk with food in your mouth,” Fili scolds him, and Bilbo opens his own mouth to interject, but the boys are laughing, and Gandalf is all but smirking at him, and the ridiculousness and frailty of the situation strike him then, because how long will it last – five minutes?

“Alright,” he mutters weakly, “...alright.”

“Have a sausage,” Gandalf pats his shoulder gently, “it'll make you feel better.”

“I doubt that,” Bilbo utters, but reaches for a plate nevertheless... and almost drops it the next second when the door on the far side of the room flies open, and a man stomps inside, loud and tall and yes, intimidatingly large.

“You're still eating!” he exclaims, “hurry up, you scrawny rascals! I don't know what they've been feeding you at the Palace, but I'll make sure you eat properly while you're staying here – oh. Oh, my apologies. You must be Master Baggins. _Baknd ghelekh_ _._ ”

“Ah, erm, yes, I... _baknd ghelekh_ _,_ ” Bilbo stammers, remembering his manners and standing up hurriedly to offer his hand to the newcomer.

“I'm Beorn,” the man smiles broadly, shaking Bilbo's hand powerfully, “welcome. Sit down, eat – you're not any better than the boys. Look at you lot, pasty and skinny! You did good bringing them here, Gandalf, they could all use a bit of fresh air!”

Bilbo sinks back into his seat, feeling a bit dazed – Beorn reminds him of one of his Scottish grandfathers, all twinkling eyes and massive shoulders and a mane of hair despite his old age, and as much of a giant as he is, Bilbo is sure he's kind enough. The boys seem enchanted by him, for one.

“Beorn said we can go hunting with him!” Kili exclaims.

“And that we could watch him gut a rabbit for dinner!” Fili adds, no less enthusiastically.

“Well, you're not going hunting like that, _uzbâdîth_ _,_ ” Beorn ruffles Kili's hair, and only then does Bilbo notice the boys are both wearing an oversized pair of socks, probably from the man's own reserves, and realizes they're still in their pajamas, with no change of clothes, and god, they shouldn't be this chipper, none of them, the Palace was attacked last night, and...

“Coffee?” Beorn asks, towering over him and pouring him a cup before he can so much as peep.

“None for me, thanks,” Gandalf says, “I need to get going.”

“Where are you going?” Bilbo asks weakly.

“Back to the Palace. I'll get you your hunting clothes, Your Highness,” he winks at Kili.

“When can we go back?” Fili asks earnestly.

“Soon,” Gandalf replies simply, “after we figure out who were the men who came last night.”

“And when's _Indâd_ coming?” Kili wants to know, though he seems to be more interested in swirling his oatmeal with his spoon.

“Today,” Gandalf declares, offering a short nod when Bilbo gapes at him.

“Can you bring my camera?” Fili asks.

“And Muzmith! The kitty, sir, can you please bring her?”

“And Bilbo's books, so that we have something to read!”

“And my racing track...”

“He can't bring your racing track, _silly._ It's too big!”

“But-”

“Boys, boys,” Bilbo calms them down, “I think what we need the most are some clean clothes, don't you think? Maybe a toothbrush.”

“No-o!” they both cry out in unison.

“Make it look like you forgot the toothbrushes,” Fili leans in to Gandalf conspiratorially, and Bilbo can't help but giggle, if a bit helplessly.

“I have some spare toothbrushes here, you know,” Beorn chimes in, currently leaning over the sink and washing dishes.

“Aha! Problem solved,” Bilbo grins, and both Princes groan and sigh theatrically.

Gandalf laughs, but motions for Bilbo to follow him out with a small, stern gesture, and so he leaves the boys, who for their part seem blissfully unfazed, and trots after Gandalf into the hallway, clutching onto his cup of coffee for dear life.

“Make sure you stay inside as much as possible today,” Gandalf tells him simply, “don't pick up any calls until I return.”

“I...” Bilbo sighs.

“Don't worry,” Gandalf smiles at him earnestly, patting his shoulder, but when Bilbo looks into his face, he realizes he doesn't recognize him anymore – he has no idea who Gandalf is. He does his best not to shudder.

“The King...” he mumbles.

“Knows nothing so far,” Gandalf replies, “it's for the best.”

“Is it?” Bilbo sighs.

“Yes. As long as Bundushar doesn't make another move, or decides to reveal his meeting with you, we keep our mouths shut as well, understood?”

“I don't know how long I can keep this up anymore,” Bilbo mutters.

“You're better at lying than you think.”

“ _How_ is that comforting in any way?” Bilbo groans, but Gandalf just smiles.

“When the King comes, he'll bring with him the Chief of Police, and a number of other very important people. This place will be very busy, and as far as everyone's concerned, your only job will be to make sure the Princes don't get in the way. No one will even think about questioning you, or looking at you twice, for that matter.”

“Again, not very comforting.”

“You'll be fine,” Gandalf declares firmly, “just stay put until I come back.”

And with that, and yet another infuriatingly joyful wink, he leaves him, and Bilbo watches him hurry through the front door, get into his car and swiftly drive away. His gaze then drops to the dark swirling void of the coffee in his mug, and he thinks it's a nice metaphor for all the impending doom he feels weighing him down. 

He slinks back into the kitchen, feeling more than a little miserable, and finds the boys all but licking grease off their fingertips after having successfully finished the loads of food Beorn had prepared for them, while the groundskeeper himself seems to be preparing some sort of pie.

“Can we go play outside now?” Kili asks.

“I, I don't think we can,” Bilbo replies, “I think we're supposed to stay inside until your Uncle arrives.”

“Why?” Fili moans, “are there bad men outside waiting to get us?”

“No, but the animals in the forest need their rest, poor things,” Beorn offers calmly before Bilbo can come up with a suitable answer, “and the two of you stomping around and shouting would wake them all up!”

Fili rolls his eyes while Kili giggles, and Bilbo sighs: “I'm sure your Uncle will be here in no time.”

“Yes. Until then, why don't you help me peel these apples?” Beorn says, and Kili perks up, sliding off his chair, feet pattering on the tiles as he hurries to stand beside the man, peeking under his hands, even though his head barely reaches over the counter.

“Can I draw?” Fili turns to Bilbo, “I saw some pencils and paper back in that bedroom.”

“Oh, oh right! Of course,” Bilbo nods, quite relieved that the boys will have something to occupy themselves with for ten minutes at least, “just wait here. I'll go get them for you.”

Fili frowns, as if he wants to ask something, but then he merely sighs and shrugs, standing up from the table and dragging his chair to give to Kili to climb onto and see better.

“I'll keep an eye on them,” Beorn rumbles, the boys surrounding him, and Bilbo sits there a bit hesitantly for a moment, before exhaling raggedly and leaving them.

 

None of them last long like this, sitting idly by and doing nothing much – Bilbo tries to read, but Kili gets steadily covered in more and more flour, from head to toe, while Fili starts complaining about the smell of apples, which he's passionately allergic to, and it soon becomes obvious that being confined to one small room will not do the trick.

Bilbo takes them exploring, and they find that the house is not that big after all – well, as royal residences go, anyway. They spend some time in the master bedroom, which is a rather splendid suite with one of the large, round windows and a beautiful, grand bed of carven wood. Clouds of dust rise as the boys climb onto it, enjoying the way the springs in the age-old mattress creak and squeak, and Bilbo is forced to open the window, lest they all suffocate. As the boys open the heavy chest at the foot of the bed and rummage through its contents, Bilbo goes through the wardrobes almost reverently, finding books, and old drapes, and even a couple of suits hanging there neatly, untouched for what might be decades...

“Look, photos!” Kili exclaims, and Bilbo sees that the boys are sitting amidst a pile of more books, and gramophone disks, the colors of their fraying wrappers fading, and in Fili's lap rests a thick, heavy photo album. Bilbo sits down with the Princes, and Fili turns the pages slowly, with awe. All the pictures are black and white, and Bilbo turns a couple of them over gingerly to see if there's a date written on the back. They're all from the eighties, and they all contain the royal family, the old King with his wife, and their son, Thorin's father, and then of course His Majesty himself with his siblings...

“That's Deidre, isn't it?” he points, and indeed, the maid is there in quite a number of the photos, young and always grinning, and pacifying Thorin and his siblings... There's quite a number of pictures of just Thorin and his sister, before Frerin was born, the two of them strikingly alike in appearance, dark hair and a vigorous glint in their eyes. And family photos throughout the years, Dís bearing more and more resemblance to her beautiful mother, while Thorin looks more and more stern and regal just like Thrain, and Frerin almost seems like he doesn't belong – that is until they discover a very old photo of the old King himself, and see that Thror was just as light-haired in his youth as Thorin's little brother.

Bilbo feels increasingly like he's intruding here – everyone is so happy, so cheerful in the pictures, there are garden parties, and Thorin's parents reading newspapers in the garden, and the children riding bikes, or playing with dogs, and there's even a young Beorn, giving a squealing Dís a piggyback ride, and, well... He steals glances at Fili and Kili, to see how they will react, and they just giggle and try to guess who's who, and trail their fingertips over the fading sheen of the photographs, and Bilbo can't help but feel immensely sad. It all bears the distinctive taste of times so good they are only to be remembered, never relived. 

Beginning to feel a bit like the villain in all of it, Bilbo ushers the boys out of the room and back downstairs to see if lunch is ready. Gandalf reappears in the middle of it, bearing gifts in the form of numerous suitcases filled with the boys' clothes, as well as Bilbo's, but for their part, the Princes are more excited about the books and the kitten, of course, even though Muzmith bolts out of the dining room the second she realizes the tiles won't set her paws ablaze, and they can't find her for the next hour.

Bilbo forces the boys to change from their pajamas, and loses the crumpled shirt himself, slipping into something more suited for chasing after the Princes through the dusty maze of the house, but all exploring is postponed when people start arriving – Balin with Deidre first, bringing some more supplies, but more importantly a calming presence. And Bilbo's going to need it, because the main drawing room, which has been turned into a sort of headquarters for whatever is going on, starts filling with very purposeful-looking people. The King's PR team arrives in full strength, setting up Internet connection and whatnot, and then Dain Khirikhbuzun himself appears, looking a bit startled, and it's all topped off by the Chief of Police arriving with Dwalin and, at last, the King himself.

Bilbo is preoccupied with helping Fili untangle Muzmith from the drapes, and so he doesn't even notice the ruckus of the room quieting down a little at first. But then Kili exclaims ' _Indâd!_ ', and Bilbo's heart makes a stupid leap, and he turns to look. Thorin is smiling, because Kili is stumbling to him, avoiding the numerous people in the room, and even though he crouches and extends his arms to the boy, scooping him up with a laugh, the weariness is evident in his every movement – Bilbo wonders if he slept at all.

He doesn't even have to usher Fili to join his brother – the Prince walks over to his Uncle on his own, grinning and nodding when Thorin ruffles his hair and asks him if he's alright. Bilbo stands there quite clueless, Muzmith now purring in his arms, and when Thorin's gaze finds him and the King smiles, exhaling raggedly and nodding shortly, he struggles with not letting the ache of his heart all but splitting apart show in his face. He feels so much relief, but also guilt, and he can't quite handle both – he watches mutely as Thorin mutters something to Balin, who simply nods, and takes the Princes out of the room. The King then strides across the length of the room to Bilbo, unhindered by the chaos around him, people chattering, and asking him questions, and all in all certainly having more important things on their minds than His Majesty going for a chat with his nephews' glorified nanny. But Thorin doesn't seem to care, and frankly, neither does Bilbo.

“Are you alright?” they ask in unison, and the King smiles broadly while Bilbo laughs uneasily.

“The boys are perfectly fine,” Bilbo manages, “slept through the night, and I can barely keep them still.”

“You've been staying indoors?”

“Yes, of course. It was... suggested.”

“Good, yes,” Thorin utters, his gaze trailing over the crowd somewhat absentmindedly, then settling on Bilbo again, “thank you. Really, I...”

“It's alright,” Bilbo replies, definitely more firmly than he's actually feeling, “really, they're unscathed, so to speak, and they've been asking after you, so I'm... we're just glad that you're here.”

Thorin's smile is even more radiant then, and Bilbo feels a blush creeping into his cheeks. To his surprise, the King squeezes his shoulder briefly, and for a second, it seems as though he's about to say something, but then the door flies open, and Gandalf steers in, side by side with the Chief of Police, a rather intimidating man, and the... the moment is gone, faster than it came. Thorin's hand slides off Bilbo's arm as the King moves away, but Bilbo can feel his fingertips brushing along the length of his forearm long after that – a burning, unforgettable sensation.

“Everybody in?” Gandalf declares loudly, “alright. Everyone under clearance level Alpha out of the room, please.”

He nods to Bilbo, a distinct _not to worry, you'll learn everything at one point or another_ gesture, but for his part, Bilbo is quite relieved to leave, and he hurries along most of the journalists and guards into the hall, stealing one last glance at Thorin, who is just sitting down at the head of the polished table, putting on his glasses and shuffling through a pile of papers someone hands to him. Bilbo has to struggle not to let out a pained sigh at the sight.

His phone buzzes in his pocket then, and he fishes it out – he almost forgot he had it. The screen is alight with a text message from Fridda, _'Please tell me you're okay!!!',_ three exclamation points and everything,and he thinks about his options for a bit, before texting back a short _'I'm fine, I promise. Don't know how much I can say. Call you when I'm able'._ He's quite certain he shouldn't disclose his location or anything, which is even easier than it sounds – after all, he has absolutely no idea where they are still. 'Somewhere in the mountains' is as vague as it gets, in a country that's 60 percent mountain ranges.

He trails back into the kitchen, assuming correctly that he'll find the Princes there – they're both doodling at the table, while Deidre washes the dishes, and Beorn and Balin are deep in conversation outside on the veranda.

“Bilbo, it's good to see you in one piece, __gimlanîth__ _,_ ” the maid turns to look at him.

“I'm fine, thank you,” he chuckles, sitting down somewhat heavily and wishing he could actually tell her the truth, which happens to be the opposite of 'fine'.

“Really,” she remarks sternly, drying her hands off and scrutinizing him – he forgot how good she is at those piercing looks.

She might get the truth out of him whether he wants to share it or not, eventually.

“What, erm... what are you doing here, again?” he asks to distract himself.

“I'm staying, as long as you're staying,” she replies simply, “someone needs to look after you lot, and trust me when I say that Beorn can't cook da burushur hubma.”

Kili gasps and plasters his hands over his mouth, while Fili giggles outright, and Bilbo shakes his head while she shrugs innocently.

“It'll be fun,” she declares dryly.

“Right,” Bilbo sighs feebly.

 

So much fun. The meeting in the drawing room takes literally hours, people emerging from the room and driving away, and new people arriving, and Deidre makes tens of cups of coffee, as well as snacks, for the company, and Bilbo himself is busy enough keeping the boys occupied. They are allowed to go outside at long last, though accompanied by Bert and Tom, the Princes' faithful assigned bodyguards. And so the five of them go about exploring the premises – the house itself really is beautiful now, in the afternoon light, its red brick walls overgrown with ivy, and surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn.

The thick, twisted branches of a tall chestnut tree cast a broad shadow over a drained pool and a couple of greenhouses, old but not abandoned, and when they venture further into the garden, they discover that a wall surrounds it all, and beyond it stands a smaller house, where Beorn lives. They hear a faint buzz and happen upon a number of bee houses in the most beautiful part of the garden, endless lines of flowerbeds overflowing with colors and scents. 

Bilbo is sure it must have been a wonderful place for children to play in, with all the mysterious corners and old trees with branches just low enough to climb, not to mention the forest behind the wall – he can only hope he'll ever be allowed to take the boys out there and explore it.

Returning to the house, they see that most of the people have left, only a couple of cars left in the driveway, and it's all very quiet, birds chirping and the wind picking up a bit. Bilbo exchanges a nod with Dain, who somehow seems to have aged years in the past couple of hours, and watches his car drive away as well, accompanied by a police escort. Feeling vaguely nervous, he tells the boys to go wash their hands before dinner when they come inside, and decides to find Gandalf. He doesn't have to go far for that – he follows the sounds of heated discussion into the drawing room.

“The public needs to be informed about your whereabouts,” that's Gandalf, “tell them you will be staying with your nephews for the time being – it's definitely a better image than dismissing the worries completely.”

“It doesn't matter where you are, Your Majesty,” Balin adds, “you addressing this on a regular basis is an image that's easy to maintain.”

“We need to return to the Palace as soon as possible,” Thorin utters, and at that point Bilbo gets a peek into the room, and sees that the King is pacing in front of a projector screen that has been erected at some point, the broadcast of Erebor's number one channel playing on it, the sound muted for now.

“Hiding out here accomplishes nothing,” Thorin continues, “what about Ibindikhel?”

“What about him?” Gandalf raises an eyebrow, and Bilbo's step falters.

“I want him co-operating with my team – he's always been good at smoothing things down.”

Gandalf opens his mouth to reply, but then he notices Bilbo, and his brow furrows as he contemplates something.

“That sounds good,” he says at last, “my people will make sure this isn't blown out of proportion on our end. Bilbo, there you are! Come on in.”

Bilbo can't help himself, he gulps nervously, but enters the room obediently. Fresh air is pouring in through the wide open windows, to chase away the stale smell of coffee and far too many people being crammed into too little space for too long, and notices Dwalin, who is currently seated amidst numerous monitors, setting up what seems to be a system of cameras monitoring the whole compound, in and out.

“Everything, erm... alright?” Bilbo asks feebly, and Balin and the King sigh almost in unison, Thorin sinking into the nearest chair, while his assistant excuses himself, his phone at his ear.

“As alright as it gets,” Gandalf replies, “what you need to know is this – you and the Princes will be staying here for the time being. The police are already working hard to discover the culprit of the attack, and they might want to question you at some point, but you have nothing to worry about.”

“I see,” Bilbo sighs shakily, Gandalf's piercing look only understandable to him, “what, uh, what about you, Your Majesty?”

Thorin's gaze flickers from the screen to him, and it is full of such exhaustion that Bilbo feels the guilt almost physically devouring him.

“I've a statement to make for the media tomorrow,” he supplies solemnly, “and everyone assures me that it's perfectly alright to tackle the issue from here, but I'd much rather get us all home as soon as possible, you understand.”

“Of course,” Bilbo all but whimpers, resisting the urge to go and bang his head against a wall somewhere.

“Ibindikhel has agreed to help.”

That's Balin, re-entering the room, scribbling into a thick diary.

“He said he could stop by here, but I think it might be safer if he convened with our people in Erebor.”

Thorin sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“I can meet him tomorrow after the statement,” he offers.

“That's when Chief Surkaz is to update you on the situation.”

“Right, tashrab, I would have forgotten. When, then?”

“May I suggest you receive him here, Your Majesty?” Gandalf chimes in, “if he's trustworthy, that is.”

Thorin and Balin exchange a look, and Gandalf shakes his head at Bilbo almost imperceptibly – _not to worry_.

“We could get him to sign something,” Balin says, “a confidentiality agreement.”

“Oh, fair enough,” Thorin waves his hand, “set it up.”

“The news is starting,” Gandalf declares, “look.”

They un-mute the volume, and after the familiar tune, the studio appears, two very serious reporters announcing the breaking news, and big bold letters reading _maktûb azgharab zai_ _Hurmulkezer_. 'A mystery attack on the Palace'. Bilbo gulps nervously.

He doesn't catch much of the quick Khuzdul, but then they switch to foreign channels, the CNN and even BBC World News, both covering the story shortly.

“No casualties have been reported so far,” they hear, and Bilbo remembers the gunshots, Dwalin stopping the man crossing their way without a second's hesitation, and just when his anxiety reaches its peak, he feels Thorin looking at him, and he forces himself to calm down a little bit, offering a short, crooked smile to the King.

_The King, Thorin II, and both his nephews, are unharmed – will this unprecedented turn of events influence the upcoming Peace celebrations, or even the much anticipated elections? In the coming days, our reporters will be covering the situation unfolding in Erebor in painstaking detail..._

Bilbo feels nauseous – it's all very definitely larger than life, and he can't even bear to look at the King, much less think about the fact that he's very much a part of why the CNN are talking about 'a possible assassination attempt'. It's been less than twenty four hours, and already they're beginning to speculate about the country's future. _Well done, Bilbo Baggins,_ he thinks sarcastically, _look how far you've come – from a reluctant tutor, to an unwilling disturber of peace._

When the broadcast ends, Thorin rises from his seat, leaving the room without a word, Balin merely sighing and hanging his head when Bilbo looks at him, while Gandalf glares out of the window, apparently deep in thought.

“I'll be going back to the Palace,” Balin informs Bilbo, “I trust the boys have everything they need? If you remember anything, anything at all they might require, I'm coming back here tomorrow – give me a call.”

“I will,” Bilbo affirms, feeling suddenly a bit frightened about being left alone – out of all of them, Balin is the best at handling everything without a hint of worry, quickly and efficiently, and god knows Bilbo could use that.

“I need to get going as well,” Gandalf declares, and Bilbo swivels around to look at him.

“You-”

“It's alright, I'll be back at some point during the week, too,” Gandalf tells him with a vague smile, “you'll be fine.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Bilbo mutters heavily, and Gandalf chuckles.

“I'll call you,” he says simply, and marches out of the room, followed closely by Balin. 

Bilbo watches them disappear, and begins to feel very, very lost, and very, very desperate, wringing his hands together and raking his fingers through his hair. A drink – he needs a drink. Is six PM too early for a drink? Probably.

“Professor, come here.”

He yelps quite awkwardly – he completely forgot Dwalin was still in the room. The bald man seems preoccupied with the screens showing the footage of the house and its immediate surroundings, but he looks at Bilbo expectantly when he hesitates, patting the chair next to him. Bilbo slinks over there rather reluctantly.

“We need to set up a few things,” Dwalin declares, “first off, I need to know where you'll be sleeping.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Pick a bedroom,” Dwalin says simply, pointing at the split screens, “either this one, or this one. The Princes are sleeping here, and I suggest you stay close to them.”

“Oh... oh, right,” Bilbo rubs his forehead, “alright, erm... this one seems alright.”

“Good,” Dwalin nods, “the cameras are a necessary precaution, you understand.”

“O-of course, yes.”

“Then there's this.”

He places a gun on the table in front of them with a dull clang, and Bilbo's heart sinks.

“Oh no,” he peeps, “no, no, I can't take this. I've never used one before.”

“And I sincerely hope you never have to,” Dwalin says simply, “but I'm giving you one nevertheless. It's lightweight, the recoil is almost non-existent. I'll teach you how to use it tomorrow, all you need to know now is that this-” the quiet click is enough to send shivers up Bilbo's spine, “means the safety's off, and it's ready to shoot, and when you push it back like this, it won't go off inside your pocket, alright?”

He puts it in Bilbo's hands unceremoniously, and the metal is cold and hostile.

“Is this really necessary?” Bilbo mewls, “I mean... bodyguards follow us wherever we go anyway, and...”

“It's necessary,” Dwalin says firmly, “you don't have to carry it with you around the house, but whenever you go outside, I want you to have it. Put it somewhere safe for now, and I'll teach you how to use it tomorrow, understood?”

Bilbo weighs it tentatively, frowning, then sighs raggedly.

“Alright then.”

“Good. Now off you go – don't go anywhere further than the gardens without notifying me, please.”

Bilbo merely nods weakly, quite sure he doesn't want to go anywhere further than the kitchen ever again, and makes his way there, hoping that dinner might be at least a minor improvement to his situation.

Contrary to his expectations, he doesn't find the Princes there, but stumbles upon the King instead, attempting to make himself a sandwich while balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, looking so epically silly that Bilbo can't help but smile.

“Let me, let me,” he hurries to Thorin's side, tucking the gun into the back pocket of his trousers without a second thought, and taking the knife out of the King's hand and simply shooing him off to go sit down.

He hesitates, but moves away obediently, mouthing a 'thank you' while the person he's talking to keeps blabbing on, and Bilbo smiles and nods, going about spreading butter on the bread, and putting together a simple thing of the stuff he finds, making sure he includes some cucumber and cheese alongside the deli meat – and see, _this_ he could spend his days doing, making sandwiches for the King, worrying only about the amount of mayo he puts in... Right. As if things could ever be so idyllic. _Enjoy it while it lasts – and perhaps make a sandwich for yourself. Who knows, it might be your very last meal, at the rate things are going._

“Tea?” he asks over his shoulder, and the King covers the phone with his hand, uttering 'Coffee, please – just a bit of milk, no sugar', and so Bilbo fills the kettle and prepares two cups, for Thorin as well as himself, and tries not to let the ridiculously endearing domesticity of it all dampen his spirits too much.

“I don't know how to thank you,” Thorin says when Bilbo puts the sandwich along with the coffee in front of him, and it's so earnest Bilbo can't resist a soft chuckle.

“Making sure you don't overwork yourself would be a good start,” he mutters, and adds quickly, before the King's fondly amused look can pronounce the blush in his cheeks too much, “eat.”

“Mahal, this is delicious,” Thorin groans.

“Really?” Bilbo snorts, “I'll attribute that to your atrocious eating habits altogether. How long since you've eaten last?”

“If I say a week, will that persuade you to make me another sandwich?”

Bilbo pfft's, and Thorin smiles lightly, eying him as he sips his coffee.

“Erm, any idea where the boys are?” Bilbo asks to distract himself.

“I believe Deidre is making them unpack upstairs.”

“Oh, good. The clothes arrived just in time – I'm sure they'd have been perfectly happy to spend the day in their pajamas.”

“Who wouldn't?” Thorin sighs.

They sink into quite the companionable silence, finishing their pauper's dinner, blissfully uninterrupted by anything or anyone, and Bilbo watches the shadows lengthen on the terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor, and wonders how long this peace will last. Quite absentmindedly, he takes the gun out of his back pocket, because it's making sitting uncomfortable, and only after he puts it at the table does he notice Thorin gazing at him, his eyes so evidently sad that Bilbo's mouth hangs open, and he tries to come up with something to say to diffuse the sudden heaviness hanging over them.

“I'm so sorry that you got caught up in... all this,” the King mutters, “you didn't deserve-”

“Oh, no, no, please,” Bilbo interrupts him hastily, before he can say something that would make him feel even more guilty, “it's alright, really, I, I... I do admit I never expected to actually consider re-reading the 'Funeral Arrangements' part of my contract, but here we are, and... I'm fine. It's fine. Really.”

Thorin chuckles shakily, gazing out of the window, then back at Bilbo, scrutinizing and somewhat awed.

“You have no business being this obnoxiously brave,” he says quietly, and Bilbo really, really wants to say _'And you have no business making me too brave for my own good',_ but he just titters uneasily instead, wringing his hands together and muttering: “I don't get discouraged that easily.”

“Yes, I know,” Thorin's smile broadens.

“I...” Bilbo flushes under his intense gaze, “erm... where are we, anyway?”

“Excuse me?” the King blinks in confusion, and Bilbo strains himself not to roll his eyes at his own smooth conversational skills.

“It's just that... I still have no idea where we are,” he says, “this place. For all I know, we could have stepped through the looking glass, or something.”

“Oh, this,” Thorin replies, “we're in the _Khagolabbad_ _._ In the middle of the wilderness, basically – the Swiss border is about ten miles away, if I'm not mistaken. My family would spend every summer here when...”

“Right,” Bilbo mutters quietly, remembering the dozens of faded photographs.

“Ered Luin is the town closest to us – a glorified village, really,” Thorin continues calmly, “the Prime Minister lives there. Already, he's suggesting that I stay for the Peace celebrations – the town is famous for its festivities, and I'm given to understand everything will be quite glorious when the time comes...”

He trails off, his eyes unfocusing somewhat, as if he's remembering something, and Bilbo tries desperately to come up with something comforting to say.

“I'm sure everything will be back in order by then,” he offers, “we'll be back in Erebor in no time.”

“I do hope you're right,” the King mumbles.

“The boys are so excited about all of it,” Bilbo adds, in hopes that it might cheer Thorin up, “they tell me there will be theater shows in the streets all over the capital?”

“And fairs, and concerts, and so much more, yes,” Thorin says somewhat colorlessly.

“It sounds wonderful.”

“It really is,” the King sighs, and only then does Bilbo notice that his eyes are unnaturally bright, and he fights the urge to reach out over the table and take his hand.

“Your Majesty, I... I'm sure everything will be alright,” he tries lamely, and Thorin merely nods curtly, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes for a long, pained moment.

“I admire that in you,” he says raggedly, “the faith. The optimism.”

_Oh, bother._

The real scope of the situation hits him then, the fact that he's sitting here at the table with a monarch who he only so happens to be hopelessly infatuated with, and he's somehow managed to put said monarch, _and_ his nephews, _and_ possibly his whole country in danger, all of that within the span of... what? Barely six months? And for some reason, he cannot find it within him to tell the truth still – the comfort found in trying to forget all of this is happening at all, however momentary and fleeting, is still better than facing reality head on. He could lose his job – he _will_ lose his job, the second things calm down and someone smart starts asking the right questions. He could... he could go to jail, and be denied access to the country, and spend the rest of his life back in England, in a horribly boring job, living an altogether horribly boring existence, surviving off the memories of what he's already sure will come down as the best time of his life...

He can't quite help the ragged sigh that escapes him, rattling his bones, his shoulders slumping, and he allows himself a split second of weakness, burying his head in his hands and groaning, before he remembers Thorin is still sitting nearby, and might get all the wrong ideas.

“I wish I knew what to do,” Bilbo whimpers through his fingers, staring at the table intently, then risking a glance at Thorin and adding in a very tiny voice, “I wish I knew how to help.”

The King's face crumples, entirely too vulnerable, and he seems so touched, and Bilbo knows he should have worded it all differently – _I wish I could tell you what's really going on. I wish I weren't such a coward, in fact. Please don't look at me with those eyes, I_ so _don't deserve that._

“You're helping enough as it is,” Thorin says plainly, and to Bilbo's unadulterated shock (and chagrin, really, because _now?!_ ), he is the one to reach across the table and put his hand over Bilbo's, and _bloody hell,_ this is unfair.

At any other time, he'd be jumping up and down with sheer joy, and his heart does start beating a lot quicker, the treacherous bastard, but they're here, they're now, and if there's anything Bilbo absolutely cannot allow himself to do, under any circumstances, it's to lead Thorin on. _It's not that I don't want this, mind you, exactly the opposite in fact, it's just that I'm a horrible liar, with no control over the situation whatsoever, and I can't, can't stand to watch you suffer..._ Right. Maybe the air would actually clear up were he to summon the courage to say something along those lines.

But for now, Thorin's hand is heavy and warm, so warm, and Bilbo stares at his own fingers brushing over Thorin's knuckles, and it's as if he can't control them, can't control himself, at all. He can't really bring himself to look at Thorin himself, though, even though he knows the King is watching him. He merely gapes in a sort of haze as Thorin cradles his hand in his palm, and their fingers entwine, and Bilbo's heart is fluttering in his ribcage at a frantic pace, and he should say something, shouldn't he say something? 

He almost laughs bitterly when a thunderous stomping announces the Princes approaching – Bilbo's and Thorin's hands spring apart as if struck by lightning, and the King reclines in his chair, jaw set tight, while Bilbo runs his hand through his hair quite desperately.

“ _Indâd, Indâd,_ Deidre won't let us go to the attic!” Kili goes straight for Thorin, grabbing his arm and all but bouncing up and down, “what if there's a wardrobe like in Narnia? I wanna see!”

“There's no wardrobe,” Fili scoffs.

“Just dust and bats,” Deidre chimes in, arms full of old sheets, and looking somewhat breathless.

“I'm afraid Deidre's right, _a_ _khûnith,_ ” Thorin says gently, “there's not much to see there, if I remember correctly.”

“Bu-ut,” Kili moans, then turns to Bilbo, puppy eyes to the max, “please?”

Bilbo laughs shortly, perfectly aware that avoiding the King's gaze will cause him nothing but suffering in the long haul, but quite unable to face him, still a bit dazed after their little... moment. He focuses on the little Prince instead, letting him climb into his lap, and he says conspiratorially: “Maybe I'll take you there sometime, when no one's looking.”

Kili beams up at him, nodding very solemnly when Bilbo brings his finger to his lips in quite the theatrical _'no one can know'_ gesture, and Fili giggles, while Deidre rolls her eyes.

“I see the two of you have eaten?” she remarks, regarding the leftovers on the counter somewhat suspiciously.

“We had sandwiches,” Thorin offers, and Bilbo's gaze does dart to him then, and _dear lord, are the two of them actually the children in the room?_

“I want a sandwich, too!” Fili exclaims, and Kili mirrors, 'Me too!', and Deidre sighs profoundly.

“Alright, sandwiches it is, then. Didn't Beorn say he'd teach you how to gut a rabbit?”

“Beorn said what now?” Thorin demands in mock-horror, and sensing he's dangerously close to forgetting himself in the coziness of the situation, Bilbo orders Kili to climb off him, and moves to help Deidre with preparing the food.

“It's high time they learned how to hunt their own dinner, don't you think?” the old maid says dryly, and Thorin laughs earnestly.

“I do hope you're joking.”

“I could hunt!” Kili protests.

“With what?” Fili sniggers, “your teddy bear?”

“No-o,” the younger Prince groans, “I'd have a bow, with arrows! And I'd teach Muzmith to hunt, too!”

Bilbo and Deidre exchange a highly amused look.

“Well, it looks like you have it all figured out,” Thorin remarks softly, “though I'm not sure you'd catch anything bigger than a butterfly at that rate.”

“I would, too!”

“Muzmith catches butterflies all the time, though,” Fili adds.

“That is true,” the King agrees, “but both of you would have to grow up quite a lot before daring anything larger than that.”

“We will!” Kili proclaims, “one day we'll be taller than all of you.”

The King grunts as his nephew clambers into his lap – Bilbo can't see, as he's still keeping his eyes fixed on the cucumber, struggling to contain his emotions. His heart makes a fluttering leap when Kili squeals in sheer joy, and he needs to look then.

“Well, you're taller than me now – how does it feel?” Thorin smiles, holding Kili at arm's length and up utterly effortlessly, the boy's legs swaying in the air as he giggles.

“Good!” he exclaims, and even Fili's grinning, and Bilbo's heart is this close to bursting.

He turns his back to them before Thorin can catch his look, but he doesn't account for Deidre, who measures him too intently for his liking.

“Are you alright?” she asks quietly as the King with his nephews laugh and chat, and Bilbo strains himself not to groan.

“I'm fine,” he replies, forcing the lightest tone possible into his voice, “why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she says slowly, and when he does brave looking at her, she raises her eyebrows at him somewhat sternly, shaking her head when he says nothing.

“Suit yourself,” she utters, and Bilbo exhales shakily, wondering, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, how long his nerves will last like this, strung to the point of breaking already – his conscience is bound to get the better of him eventually, he thinks. And then it will all come spilling out, and he'll ruin everything, and what's more, it will be the right thing to do...

 

Or not. Yet again, the whole world seems to conspire to against him – or is it for his benefit? It's so much easier, forgetting what he's done, when he's in the middle of nowhere, his phone blissfully silent and his fate blissfully undecided. The King leaves very early the next morning, and it's for the better, Bilbo decides. It really is – it's one less thing to desperately worry about.

He devotes all his energy to keeping the Princes occupied, which is a task much more tricky than it sounds – they are still not allowed to leave the mansion, which is nothing short of infuriating, considering the beautiful weather. August is coming to an end, and the evenings are a bit colder, but the sun is at its best – the house is built so that the rich golden glow all but sets it ablaze during the day, and when it gets a bit too hot, the solid stone walls provide a pleasant cool. Bilbo watches Princes kick a football around with their bodyguards, and tries not to think about the fact that they're surrounded by yet more security – Gandalf's men keep their distance most of the time, 'securing the perimeter' or what have you, but their presence is always palpable to Bilbo. He's just glad the boys don't seem to mind.

In fact, Fili and Kili, don't seem to mind anything overmuch – the attack doesn't seem to have any lasting effect on them, and already, they're asking about going back to school. Erebor's holidays last until the second week of September this year, Bilbo understands, because of the Peace celebrations, which gives matters enough time to settle down so that the royal family can return to the Palace, but... there is absolutely no progress whatsoever.

Thorin makes a couple of speeches, and the Chief of Police makes a couple of speeches, and the press speculates and places blame, but no one really knows what happened. Things take a turn for the uncontrollable when Smaug Bundushar makes his big entree, not four days after the attack – the news forget all about the assault for that one night, and devote their attention to the fact that 'the long lost patriot' has returned, and is taking part in the election, and what's more, expresses his concern about the current situation.

Bilbo watches the telly with utter horror that day, curled up on the large sofa alongside Deidre and Dwalin, both of them all but boiling in righteous indignation, and he doesn't have it in him to get in on the complaining – he's too terrified. Bundushar uses vague terms like _'the illusion of peace',_ and _'the need for swift resolutions',_ and at times, Bilbo feels like the man is glaring directly at him from the telly, as if he knows exactly where he is, and how to get to him.

He stumbles out of the room aimlessly, the vastness of the house, quiet and dark around him, overwhelming him momentarily – he yelps when his phone rings, but fortunately there's no one nearby to hear.

“Gandalf,” he mutters weakly.

“Good evening, Bilbo,” the man speaks absolutely calmly, as if nothing horrible and frightening is happening at all, “just calling to let you know His Majesty will not be coming tonight.”

“What, uh... is he alright?”

“Perfectly alright. Are you?”

“I... I'm not sure, Gandalf, I-”

“Are you alone?”

Gandalf's voice is stern and colorless, and Bilbo shudders.

“I, I am.”

“Excellent. Here's the thing – we have a reason to suspect Bundushar will make another move.”

“What, what do you mean by _move?_ ” Bilbo stammers.

“We're not sure. Something's going to go down in Erebor.”

“So... not here? We're safe?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then _why are you telling me this?_ ” Bilbo cries out entirely too loudly, “honestly, I don't know how much more worrying I can take, Gandalf, _please-_ ”

“Bilbo, hello.”

“B-Bard?” Bilbo stutters when the voice on the other side of the line changes.

“Yes, hi. Listen, I'm coming over tomorrow to talk to the King – I thought I should let you know. I'd like to speak with you in private, do you think that could be arranged?”

“I honestly don't know, I...”

But he trails off, because he notices Kili atop the staircase, appearing like a ghost, bare feet patting on the carpet, gasping when he notices Bilbo.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Bilbo asks gently.

“What?” Bard asks, confused.

“No, no, not you – listen, sorry, I have to go.”

“Bilbo-”

But he ends the call quite resolutely, and hurries to the boy, who's rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“What's the matter?”

“I can't sleep,” Kili murmurs, “I keep hearing things.”

“What things, darling?”

“I don't know,” the boy sighs and extends his arms to Bilbo.

“Alright,” he grunts, scooping him up, “let's go see about the things.”

 _And when exactly did you decide that you needed anything more than this?,_ he ponders as the boy's head bobs on his shoulder, _why did you have to go and make matters so much worse for yourself, and everyone else?_

It turns out the mysterious sounds keeping the Prince up are nothing more than the wind picking up and moaning in the rafters, creating an almost ominous hum, as the bedroom is right below the attic. Fili is sleeping soundly, and Kili dozes off quickly as well when Bilbo tucks him in, sitting close by and stroking his curls until his breathing evens out and he burrows deeper into the blankets.

Bilbo watches the two boys curled up close to each other in the large bed for a long time, and he wonders if things would actually improve were he to stand up right now, walk away and never come back. Spare everyone the trouble.

 _Oh, now you're getting pathetic, wonderful. That'll get you far, for sure._ He sighs raggedly and gets up, and almost groans out loud when he sees the dark figure of the King standing in the doorway. Oh _lovely._

“Everything alright with them?” Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo grits his teeth too keep himself from voicing his desperation.

“Oh, yes, yes,” he replies softly, “Kili didn't like the howling of the wind.”

Thorin says nothing, his gaze locked on the boys even as Bilbo stands by his side, his hand on the door handle, wanting nothing more than to shut the door and get away as quickly as possible. His heart is almost torn asunder, for all the pathos of that, when he notices the look in the King's eyes, infinitely tender, and he hangs his head, heavy and guilt-ridden as it is.

“Did you watch the news?” Thorin whispers, still unable to look away from his nephews.

“I did, yes,” Bilbo replies, “I... I did not see that coming.”

“Neither did I.”

As if waking up from some sort of reverie, Thorin inhales sharply and turns away, lingering in the hallway after Bilbo shuts the door gingerly.

“My people think Bundushar might be behind all this, somehow,” Thorin says quietly, glaring out of the window, at the sparsely illuminated backyard below and the backs of the two guards keeping watch there.

“R-really?” Bilbo manages feebly.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Thorin chuckles bitterly, “he certainly has a knack for appearing out of nowhere at the strangest of times. It's all far too convenient to be a coincidence...”

_Tell him now. Tell him now and be done with it, for Christ's sakes._

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo peeps weakly, and Thorin turns to look at him with the most somber smile.

“It's not your fault you got caught up in the middle of this.”

Now _there's_ a line that will be his undoing.

“If anyone should be sorry, it's me,” the King continues, “I promise I didn't actually hire you to be a part of any life-threatening situations.”

Bilbo chuckles nervously.

“Are you sure?” he offers lightly, even though he feels increasingly like propelling himself through the window in front of them and running away, as far as possible from all this, “the contract never was very clear in the first place, remember?”

It doesn't really help that Thorin laughs shortly, then inclines his head and gazes at Bilbo as if he's the second coming.

“I don't understand how you do it,” he mumbles.

“Do... do what?”

“Stay so grounded. I'd be less surprised if you resigned your post at the first sight of a gun, but here you are, taking it all in stride like it's nothing.”

_Oh, no. Oh, lord._

“I do admit I doubted you, at first,” Thorin continues, and Bilbo is sure his mouth is hanging agape at that point, his brow furrowed helplessly as he's trying desperately to come up with a way to withstand the King's increasing honesty.

“I was starting to give up on ever finding anyone who'd sit right with the boys before you came along. And even after you did, I didn't actually think you'd be the one, I... I think we can both agree that not everything you did was always... ideal.”

“That's putting it very mildly,” Bilbo chuckles shakily – god, _where is this going, exactly?!_

“But here you are.”

“...Here I am.”

“I was going to say this once, before we were so rudely interrupted,” Thorin actually _smiles,_ and Bilbo's mind goes immediately to the moments right before the attack happened, back at the Palace, and against his heartbeat betrays him once again, quickening, and his throat is suddenly dry.

“The boys and I... we owe you so much.”

“Oh, no, no, I...”

“It's true. If you hadn't come along, who knows where my relationship with them would be today. You showed me a better way of approaching them, and for that... I am grateful.”

 _Oh,_ please _shut up, or I might try to kiss you, or run away, and I honestly can't account for what I'll try first._

“Even though you didn't hire me as a family therapist?” Bilbo jokes instead, and they're standing in a dark hallway in a country house in the middle of nowhere, hiding from people who are trying to hurt them, and Bilbo is so desperately worried about all the possible outcomes of this, but he's also so desperately in love, and frightened, and dead certain that if he takes this one chance, he's doomed...

“I should think you're so much more than that,” the King says simply, clearly, quietly, “before I met you, I didn't think I'd ever-”

And Bilbo thinks, _that's settled, then._ He doesn't want to hear one more word about Thorin's _didn't think he'd ever's –_ he suspects he couldn't bear it. And there's only one way of shutting him up, really. Stupidly tall as he is, Bilbo actually has to stand on his tiptoes, but other than that, crossing the distance is startlingly easy. A soft gasp escapes the King when their lips meet, and Bilbo rests his hand on his chest to steady himself without even thinking twice about it, and it's too good, too bloody good. The yearning that bottles up smack in the middle of his chest is unlike anything he's felt in years, powerful and bordering on hunger, because it's just been so horribly long, and Thorin's lips are softer and warmer than Bilbo had ever dared to dream, and just like that, all his bravado dissipates, and the beating of his heart is no longer an exhilaration, but a warning.

He breaks the kiss with his eyes shut tight, and he hangs his head, putting his hand over his mouth, and it could be two seconds, or eons, before he wrings out a muffled, strained 'I'm so sorry'.

But Thorin's hand moves to cup his cheek, and god, it's stupefyingly tender, and Bilbo knows he will be lost the second he allows himself to look up. He fails, of course he does.

The King is gazing at him steadily, his face devoid of humor, eyes infinitely gentle, but piercing. Bilbo hopes he might say something, but his fingers merely curl at the base of Bilbo's neck, effectively sending a thousand tingles up his spine, and then Thorin kisses _him. Really_ kisses him, and Bilbo is reminded, _oh, this is how troubles are forgotten, and struggles lost._ With kisses like this one, deeper and more demanding, Bilbo's chest swelling, a ball of pleasant tightness settling somewhere in his gut. His hands sneak up Thorin's chest and around his neck and he stands on his tiptoes again, longing to get as close as possible, his body betraying him on every front, quite an undignified whine escaping him when Thorin's tongue flicks out _just so,_ meeting with Bilbo's own ever so gently. Thorin finishes with a small peck, nothing but his lips brushing across Bilbo's, but still enough to make his breath hitch, and then it's done, and they're both breathless, and only inches apart still, and wow.

Bilbo's head is spinning as he tries his damnedest to remember what he was so worried about a minute ago – all coherent thought is lost to him when he looks in Thorin's eyes, and sees the utter vulnerability, the relief and the joy. _This,_ the warning bells inside his head resume their duty, _this is what you didn't want, remember? You were never supposed to let it get this far._

“I...” he manages, nothing but a hoarse sigh, his mouth dry.

“I'll accept no apologies for this,” Thorin chuckles, and that's enough for Bilbo, really.

 _Oh god, so wrong. So inconvenient._ So _not the right time._

“I shouldn't have,” he exhales, his chest tightening already, “I really shouldn't have, we... I...”

He knows far too well that the tenderness in Thorin's eyes will be replaced by confusion, and poorly concealed sadness even, but he looks nevertheless.

“I am _so._ Sorry,” he repeats, still incapable of bringing his voice above a whisper, and he only ever notices Thorin's hands were resting on his shoulders _after_ they slide off, and hang limply at his sides.

“I thought... I didn't think...” the King mumbles, and it is perhaps the worst punishment of all, to see him of all people stumble over words like that.

“Me neither,” Bilbo smiles, but feels that his face is already crumpling.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats _yet again,_ and then he can't stand it anymore – he turns on his heel and marches away, the look in Thorin's eyes, all joy seeping out of his features faster than it came, seared into his brain no matter how hard he tries to chase it away.

Fortunately his bedroom isn't far away, and he stands frozen still for a moment after he rushes inside, then turns back to the door like a man possessed, warring with himself, reaching his hand out for the doorknob, then pulling it back again, and at last, he runs both his hands down his face with a desperate groan. He steps close to the wall and bangs his forehead against it repeatedly, softly but resolutely.

He actually left him standing there. Any thought spared for what Thorin might feel, even what he might look like, alone by that window in that hallway, makes Bilbo's insides twist in a painful knot.

“You idiot,” he moans, “you horrible, horrible, stupid sodding imbecile.”

He tries sleeping, but he's barely capable of closing his eyes at all. That's done, then – it's over before it even started, whatever it could have been. _Bilbo Baggins, the snogger_ _of Kings and ruiner of kingdoms. Imagine how that will look on your resume._

When he does fall asleep, it's uneasy at best, and he tosses and turns, and wonders if the world might by some miracle take mercy on him, and end overnight.

* * *

**Dictionary:**   


Baknd ghelekh - Good morning

Da burushur hubma - For a bruised arse (curses are fun)

Izdîn muradûnh? - Are there ghosts here?

Khagolabbad - Blue Mountains

Maktûb azgharab zaiHurmulkezer - Mystery attack on the Palace

Tashrab - Dammit

Uzbâdîth - Little lords

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. It took us over a hundred thousand words, but we're finally GETTING SOMEWHERE. A great thanks to all of you who have lasted this long, I love you! Needless to say, I had a completely different outcome in mind for this chapter, and for the kiss, but here we are. I hope you liked it nevertheless! <3


	13. Chapter 13

First things first: forcing his eyes open when there is no longer any doubt that he is, unfortunately, awake after all. Summoning the ability to crawl out of bed despite the crippling despair mingled with guilt, and a healthy dose of _what-the-hell-were-you-thinking_ horror. The morning is, obviously, beautiful, and he groans when he hears the first bird chirp. Getting further than his wardrobe will be a task hinging on gargantuan amounts of willpower today, it seems. 

He feels hungover, and not the pleasant dizziness after a couple of glasses of Bombur's finest wine. No, his temples are throbbing, and his stomach is twisting faintly, warning him that the outcome of a breakfast might be a bit unpredictable, at the very least. Honestly, after one kiss? He glares at himself in the mirror, bags under his eyes he'd never noticed before, hair all mussed up, and thinks back on his college days with some fondness. He never was a heavy drinker, but whenever he did indulge himself in a little bit of alcohol in his twenties, the mornings were always merciful, much to the chagrin of his flatmates. _Oh, remember when you had flatmates? And some semblance of a normal life, miles away from royalty, and unprecedented kisses, and life-threatening situations, and, and... this? All of this? Halcyon days._

No, moping doesn't suit him. He's better than this, surely. He dresses in short, calm movements, mentally preparing himself for walking out of his room and facing whatever today decides to throw at him with at least a sliver of dignity, when he notices an unfamiliar flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. Oh, right, the video camera, he barely ever notices it, tiny and black and positioned in the furthest corner of the room... He freezes with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and simply glares at his reflection in the cloudy mirror on the door of the wardrobe, letting the dread really set in. There is a video camera in his room, and there are video cameras _everywhere. Literally_ everywhere, as Dwalin has been pointing out, rather obnoxiously at that, assuring everyone that he can see anything and everything at any given time, and that they are all safe, so very safe...

A weak, pathetic whimper escapes Bilbo, and he shuts his eyes firmly, inhaling through his nose, long and shaky. So this is probably how it feels, mind-numbing panic, and embarrassment powerful enough to make him want to crawl inside the wardrobe in front of him and never come out, all rolled into one and threatening to overwhelm him. How many people saw his little tête-à-tête with the King last night, exactly? Just Dwalin? Dwalin and all his guards? Plus a passing Deidre, and maybe even Beorn, just for the hell of it? With his luck of late, Bilbo would not be surprised at all.

Alright, damage control. He marches out of the room resolutely, even though his heart is everything but calm, and hurries into the small bathroom nearby, splashing his face with cold, cold water, in the hopes that it might clear his head. Glaring at himself in the mirror, he wars with the urge to go back into his room, lock the door, and never come out, ever again.

Instead, he goes to the boys' bedroom next, and curses under his breath when he sees it's deserted already – this means he has nowhere left to go but downstairs. He walks to the staircase slowly, listening for any odd sound, undecided whether the somewhat unusual quiet of the house is calming, or disturbing. There is no one in the hall below the stairs, and he lingers, very afraid to descend, until he hears the laughter, and almost suffers a heart attack – it's undoubtedly Deidre, followed by the Princes' cheerful voices, and Bilbo listens for a while after that, to discern if a particular someone is with them, too. Finally conceding that there's no real way of telling, he braves the stairs, painfully slowly at first, then, realizing he'd rather not be caught by anyone there, hurrying down the last couple of steps, and to the kitchen. 

He hears Thorin's voice then, the low tone of it unmistakable, and the words are indiscernible, but he sounds calm, gentle even, and Bilbo realizes he must be talking to the boys. Bilbo looks around desperately for some place to go and hide, possibly forever, but then he sighs and rolls his eyes at his own self. _That's quite enough of silliness for one day, you ridiculous idiot Bilbo Baggins. You'll go into that kitchen, and play the age-old 'Let's Avoid Eye Contact Until One Of Us Leaves The Room' game, and hopefully, just this once, you're going to win._ Going on from there must have been the bravest thing he's ever done, he decides later.

Thorin is indeed in the room, sitting at the table with Fili and Kili with his back turned to Bilbo, talking on the phone quietly while the boys munch on their cereal, and the image of the three of them is so impossibly peaceful that Bilbo almost turns around and walks right back out of the kitchen that very second. But of course, no such luck.

“Morning!” Deidre greets him cheerfully, “coffee?”

Bilbo opens his mouth helplessly, but if Thorin is opposed to his presence in any way, or registers it at all, he doesn't let it show. Determined not to look into his face unless it's absolutely necessary, Bilbo scurries to the counter in a wide arc around the table, slowly pouring himself a mug, and adding milk and sugar even more slowly – anything to avoid turning around and facing the disaster sitting at the table behind him, for as long as possible. 

“Did you sleep alright?” Deidre asks simply, “you seem a bit jumpy.”

Bilbo gapes at her, somewhat bewildered, but neither the tone of her voice nor the look on her face suggest that she's anything but genuinely interested – she doesn't know, Bilbo decides at last.

“I'm fine, yes, thank you,” he mutters a bit curtly, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling unpleasantly, as if he's being stared at – which is, wait, yes, probably exactly what's happening.

He spreads butter and jam on his toast very precisely, giving the bread and unflinching stare, anything to prolong his very fragile peace of mind.

“You can't eat over there!” Kili exclaims firmly then, “come sit down!”

Bilbo very carefully doesn't sigh, or swear, or hang his head, or in any way indicate that he's absolutely terrified of even moving an inch, and he thinks, _well, no_ _shortcoming_ _of yours has ever come from sitting down and having breakfast, now, has it?_ _Don't be a fool._ That calms him down at least a little bit, and he manages to turn around.

The King is reading a newspaper now, showing no interest in Bilbo whatsoever, and for just this one moment, he's grateful for that – he can barely bear to look at Thorin at all, anyway. He sits down heavily, managing a crooked smile when Kili grins at him, and consumes his toast in small, cautious bites, his gaze very pointedly not straying from his plate. Surely he can't be the only one to feel the hollow awkwardness of the silence – it's so bizzare, sharing something so... so stupidly fleeting with one person, and letting it ruin the air between them completely, and yet, no one else even registers it.

“Oh, I would have forgotten, Dwalin wants to speak with you as soon as you're able,” Deidre mentions casually, and a stray crumb picks that very second to go down the wrong pipe, and Bilbo chokes on it, his eyes watering with the effort to keep the volume of his gargling noises to a minimum. Kili giggles while Fili pushes his glass of juice to him across the table, and Bilbo accepts it gratefully, and it is only after he takes a long, deep gulp, that his eyes meet with the King's.

Thorin's face is utterly unreadable, his gaze flickering away quickly, and Bilbo feels an entirely different sort of pain in his throat for a second.

“Any, erm... any idea why?” he asks as calmly as humanly possible, somehow managing not to flinch when Thorin spreads his newspaper higher and broader with one snap of his wrists, so that the paper obstructs the view of his face – not that Bilbo was going to look at all, mind you.

“I'm afraid not,” Deidre offers simply, and Bilbo exhales shakily, resting his elbow on the table and rubbing his forehead, finishing the remainder of the toast suddenly an impossible task.

“Can we go into the forest today?” Kili asks then, entirely oblivious to Bilbo's (and it would be safe to assume, his Uncle's also) suffering.

“Beorn said he'd show us a waterfall,” Fili adds.

“Ple-ease?”

“We've been stuck here for days now.”

“I'll, erm... I'll have to ask Dwalin what he thinks about it,” Bilbo mumbles faintly, still scrutinizing the floral pattern of his plate.

“ _Indâd_?” Fili turns to the King, and despite all his fears, Bilbo does look up then, surprised and even a little touched that the boy would seek approval with his Uncle now.

_Oh, right, how wonderful, things are finally going right for them – obviously the best possible time to go and ruin everything._

Thorin folds his newspaper in half very slowly, and the hint of a smile when he gazes at his nephew hurts Bilbo more than anything else possibly could at that moment.

“If Dwalin agrees it's safe, then I see no problem,” he says simply, and there it is again, the painful pang, something sharp rising in Bilbo's throat, and he tries to smile, he really does, when Thorin catches his gaze, but the King's own smile fades as quick as it came, and Bilbo starts revisiting the idea of locking himself up in the wardrobe in his bedroom after all.

“I need to get going,” Thorin declares then, standing up, leaving both his coffee and his paper unfinished, “see you in the afternoon. Remember, no attic!”

The Princes mumble incomprehensible agreements, Kili fluttering his fingers in a goodbye while Fili reaches for Thorin's newspaper, and for his part, Bilbo only ever braves looking up when the King is almost out of the room. An infuriatingly inconvenient memory of Bilbo's own arms around Thorin's neck decides to come bursting through at the sight of the King's broad back, and Bilbo grits his teeth to fight off the tingle up his spine, and finishes his stupid toast in one big bite, much to the boys' amusement, chomping on it quite angrily and glaring out of the window.

Is this how it's going to be from now on, then? The two of them incapable of even being in the same room for more than five minutes? He's not as stupid to think that the kiss meant the same things to the King as it did to him – because honestly, even if the feelings were genuine on both sides, and even if by some miracle all the other issues were resolved without causing any trouble, what could they ever possibly do about it? It's not like Bilbo could just... date a King. Or, or, even be allowed more than one mistake of a kiss per lifetime. He knows this, and it pains him to realize that Thorin has probably known this his whole life. The scope of the trouble he's caused really comes to him then – it really was just one big fat mistake, and Bilbo realizes he has precisely no idea how to fix it. No, he's never been very good at fixing his messes – only causing them.

The only thing that pulls him out of the desperate reverie he's quickly spiraling into, are the Princes, of course. They begin discussing what movie they'd like to watch that evening (it's become a bit of a tradition ever since the King's PR team started leaving behind the big projector screen, which now doubles for a TV), bickering without any real venom about the benefits of Disney fairytales versus the obvious joy of starting a re-watch of the Harry Potter series for about the fourth time, and Bilbo feels his heartbeat calming down in their presence. Concentrating on just getting through the day, nothing more, sounds like a good strategy right now, to be honest.

But as fate would have it, twenty four hours of peace are too much to ask for. Or even just one hour. Or a minute. The Princes drag him off to go see Dwalin about the trip outside, who agrees quite willingly, if with a reminder that they'll be surrounded by a lot of guards ('That's fine, they can hunt, right?' is Kili's cheerful reaction, and that's the end of that). Bilbo ushers the boys off to get dressed, and his throat is suddenly very dry as he asks 'You wanted to speak to me?'.

“Yes,” Dwalin utters, seemingly preoccupied with his monitor, “I thought I'd show you how to use your gun today. You still have it, right?”

“It's, uh... yes. It's in my nightstand as of now,” Bilbo stammers, a bit confused, but frankly, relieved.

“Good. Go fetch it, and meet in the hall.”

“What, uh... now? I need to get going with the boys...”

“You're staying here,” Dwalin says curtly, looking up at last, his stern features making one thing very clear – _don't you dare argue with me._

“Beorn will accompany the Princes,” he continues matter-of-factly, “if you so desire to see the forest too, we'll arrange for another trip _when you know how to use your weapon._ ”

Bilbo gulps, something in Dwalin's strict, commanding tone confusing to him, but it's not like he's going to try and quarrel now.

“I'll – I'll be right back,” he peeps obediently, and hurries up to the second floor, first checking on the boys and telling them the news, and when they seem completely unfazed, and actually rather excited, there's nothing left for him to do but go into his room and fish the cold, hostile piece of metal out of the drawer in his nightstand. He hasn't touched the gun since the night he received it, and of course he's completely forgotten how to check if the safety's still on, or how to handle it at all. But somehow, he knows as he carries it somewhat awkwardly to meet Dwalin, it going off out of the blue is currently the least horrible thing that could happen to him. 

He knows the Head of Security and the King are lifelong friends, and he's fully prepared to find himself at the receiving end of a rather fiery speech – he's somewhat convinced that Dwalin's piercing gaze alone might actually be enough to make him confess to all his lies and crimes at once. _Oh, well,_ he thinks, _maybe it's for the better._ He's honestly lost as of this very moment – he doesn't know how he'll ever behave around the King, or what he'll do when Gandalf, or god forbid, Smaug Bundushar, contacts him again. All he knows and recognizes is the intensity with which he longs for all of this to be over – someone will find out what he's done, sooner of later, and it will not be a matter of letting his guard down, either. No, all it will take is someone taking a crack at him at the right time, asking the right sort of question just once, and he suspects he will come tumbling down like a house of cards in a draft.

He manages to successfully freak himself out even before he reaches the ground floor, and his response to Dwalin standing below the staircase with his arms firmly crossed over his chest, a sternly expectant air about him, is a rather pathetic mewl. He can't go on like this, for crying out loud! Jumpy and frightened will only last him so long.

“Ah, erm, here I am,” he babbles, very resolutely _not_ remembering that he said almost the exact same thing to Thorin last night, under very different circumstances.

“Are you sure this is, eh, wise?” he mutters, “I can barely use a stapler without hurting myself.”

Dwalin responds to that by rolling his eyes and shaking his head, motioning for Bilbo to follow him. He leads him outside, the air fresh and warm, sun shining like it doesn't care for Bilbo's troubles in the least. They hear the boys getting ready just around the corner, Beorn's laughter and their giggling and excited voices, but Dwalin takes Bilbo to the other side of the vast garden, behind a small woodshed under a pair of tall pines, far away from the house, no grass left here, just dried needles and leftover splinters from whenever wood was chopped here last crunching under the soles of Bilbo's shoes.

Wordlessly, Dwalin walks inside the shed and brings out a couple of rusty tin cans, balancing them on top of the pile of logs a couple of yards away, while Bilbo watches it all feeling increasingly more surreal.

“This place used to have a proper shooting range,” Dwalin offers conversationally while measuring the distance he'll want between Bilbo and the targets, “but I'm given to understand all that's left is a couple of rusty rifles in the attic these days. We'll have to make do. Alright, stand here.”

He drags the tip of his boot in the dirt, drawing a sort of line to indicate where Bilbo will have to stand, and Bilbo obliges a bit warily, still expecting him to start lecturing him about the inconvenience and wrongdoings of kissing monarchs in dark hallways, rather than proper shooting stances.

“Safety off,” Dwalin orders.

“Uhh...”

“This little click right here,” the Head of Security sighs, “like this. See? Exactly. Now do it ten more times in a row. Don't look at me like that – when we return to the Palace, security will be tighter around all of you, and I'm going to want you to carry this gun with you everywhere you go, understood? Don't worry, I'll make sure you know how to use it.”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps, “oh, alright. And when are we returning to the Palace, then?”

“Soon. Now take aim.”

Bilbo raises the weapon, and is immediately subject to Dwalin's stern prodding and fixing his posture.

“Never shoot with one hand only, you're not a trained professional, and your aim will go to hell. No, no, feet apart to steady yourself, arms outstretched. Shoot.”

The bang is not as loud as Bilbo had expected, but the gun still jumps in his hand, and he instinctively cringes and shuts his eyes tight, but Dwalin has him shoot over and over again until he's actually capable of standing still through it – though his face contorting in a startled grimace is something he won't be getting rid of anytime soon, he suspects. He's not by any means a good shot, only ever grazing the cans a couple of times, but Dwalin doesn't scold him, merely orders him to stand straighter, or grip tighter, and all in all, Bilbo thinks he's escaped any and all scolding regarding last night. Maybe, by some miracle, Dwalin didn't see anything after all?

“Don't pull the gun in a crowd – there will always be a guard to shield you. Only ever use it in a real emergency, and _never_ wait and chat. The attacker doesn't want to be talked down, and you don't want to talk him down – you want him out of the way as quickly as possible.”

“You're making it sound like I'll be encountering trained assassins everywhere I go from now on,” Bilbo chuckles without any real humor, and Dwalin certainly isn't in the mood for jokes either.

“We still don't know who was behind that attack,” he says sternly, “do you understand? It's been eight days now, and we've gotten exactly nowhere. The Peace celebrations are coming up, and inevitably, there will be crowds, and public events, and lots of open space. If you think these things only happen in movies, think again.”

“N-now you're just scaring me, you see.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” the Head of Security retorts harshly, “look, I'm sorry you got dragged into this, but it's my job to keep you safe. ...Either as the Princes' guardian, or... whatever it is you choose to be, you're a liability, a weak link, and it's up to us to protect you.”

“W-whatever I choose to be?” Bilbo stutters, the gun suddenly very heavy in his hands after all the practicing, “what's that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that means.”

_Right._

“You, um... you saw, then?” Bilbo says very, very quietly, feeling very, very feeble, but Dwalin merely glares at him, his face giving away nothing.

“Yes, I saw,” he replies simply, and Bilbo actually physically feels his heart sinking.

“...Right,” he mutters, and Dwalin sighs.

“I will only say this once to you,” he declares, and his tone is much kinder than Bilbo would expect, and so he braves looking in his eyes as he continues, “all of... that, is none of my business. Nobody else saw, and it doesn't need to be a problem, if you realize the risk factor of it all.”

“Yes,” Bilbo ducks his head, _trust me, the 'risk factor' is painfully clear._

“As the Head of Security, it will start being my business when it becomes a threat to the integrity of the Crown,” Dwalin adds gruffly, and a bit vaguely, “and as a friend, it will start being my problem when it becomes a problem for Thorin. Are we understood?”

“I... I think so,” Bilbo nods, his cheeks red and his heart thumping somewhere in his ears – this is simultaneously much better and much, much worse than he'd expected it to go.

“Good. And Bilbo,” Dwalin says with a softer kind of intensity, and when Bilbo looks at him, his gaze and features are both stern and unflinching, but Bilbo doesn't feel intimidated, or anything – no, Dwalin is probably really doing his best to offer sane advice, which is really so much more than Bilbo deserves.

“Yes?” he squeaks.

“Just don't hope for much. And vice versa – don't let him... you know.”

Bilbo gapes at him and feels a bit emotionally unstable – Dwalin's face doesn't flinch or change a bit, and yet Bilbo recognizes the compassion, and decides to accept it while he can.

“I don't... I don't think that'll be a problem,” he stammers, “I... it was a one time th- I mean, there won't be... I'll do my best,” he sighs at last.

“That's all I ask for,” Dwalin nods.

 

Bilbo spends the rest of the morning attempting to restore at least a little peace to his mind. Assured by Dwalin over and over that the boys will be fine, he finally decides to allow himself a couple of moments to himself, and crawls back into his bedroom, flicking open a book. That only lasts him about ten minutes, because the author introduces a love story he just can't stomach, and so he slinks back downstairs, making himself yet another cup of coffee. He stands in the kitchen for what might be another ten minutes, or an hour, the contents of his mug slowly going cold, and he just stares ahead, his mind swirling with unnecessarily heavy thoughts.

He knows he won't be able to go on like this, not for very long. He realizes he's trusted Gandalf to take care of things up to now, but he also realizes he still knows next to nothing about the man he's been calling a friend for so long. He keeps saying to be quiet, to keep the truth to himself, but surely, so many issues would be solved, or could get on the road towards being solved, if Bilbo came clean. He wonders what would have happened if he told anyone about his meeting with Bundushar right after it happened, warned anyone about what he learned on that blasted rally...

He finds he's alone in this, and he can't _actually_ trust anyone. Gandalf seems to have his interests in mind, somewhat, but Bilbo's certain that's not the _only_ interest, unfortunately. And Bard...

He remembers the phone call from last night in a momentary epiphany – with all that's happened, and how quickly he ended it, it's no wonder it didn't stick. But didn't Bard say he was coming...? Today? Well, that's just wonderful.

As if by some cruel trick of fate, he hears the crunching of gravel under the tires of car just then, and he just _knows._ He hurries to the front door to see, and indeed, Dwalin is already greeting a rather inappropriately cheerful Gandalf, and Bard, who gets out of the car scrutinizing his surroundings with a grim interest, true to both his occupation and nature.

“You're here early,” Dwalin cocks an eyebrow, “His Majesty won't be back until after lunch.”

“Yes, yes, I told Mister Ibindikhel just that,” Gandalf chuckles, catching Bilbo's gaze and offering yet another one of his vague, and frankly infuriating, winks, “but he seems to be on a schedule of his own.”

“If His Majesty really is interested in my assistance in boosting the Crown's image to the extent described in the draft your office sent me, I figured I'd start as soon as possible, with the widest scope I can think of,” Bard declares with a healthy dose of professional vagueness, sparing a short look at Bilbo as Dwalin leads them inside, but not acknowledging his existence otherwise, which only sets to put Bilbo even more on edge.

Are they actually going to be playing some sort of a game?

“What is your game, exactly?” Dwalin demands sternly, as if reading Bilbo's mind.

“No game,” Bard replies lightly, accepting the seat offered to him in the drawing room, while Bilbo lingers awkwardly in the doorway, not quite sure what's better for him – run away, or stay and listen.

“His Majesty offered me free reign over the PR part of this whole... nasty business,” the journalist continues, “and if The _A_ _mradînhund_ is to be true to this story, I will need as much material as I can possibly get my hands on.”

“And how exactly do you plan on gaining this _material_?” Dwalin's suspicious glare doesn't subside one bit.

“I was thinking interviews,” Bard smiles, “with some of the staff directly involved during the attack. None of them would be published, of course, only used as grounds to build the overview of the story on. I already sent most of my ideas to your brother's office, sir, and I understand the amount of red tape involved in this, but I also think we need to act fast. The public is getting restless, demanding more information. I'd like to run the first big piece in the Sunday edition.”

“In four days,” Dwalin says dryly.

“Yes,” Bard replies simply, and Bilbo thinks, _oh, you smooth bastard. Interviews with the staff?!_ As far as Bilbo's concerned, he was the only member of the staff present during the attack, and Bard's scheme will provide him with enough time to talk to Bilbo, and... he's not sure whether he should be happy or utterly terrified.

“I can't authorize anything until His Majesty and the Chief of Staff get here,” Dwalin offers simply, and what follows is a rather epic staring contest between him and Bard, until Gandalf clears his throat, declaring kindly: “Bilbo, dear fellow, how about you make Mister Ibindikhel a coffee while I bring Mister Fundinsson up to speed?”

Bilbo gapes at him, a bit bewildered, and more than a little offended at being automatically cast as the maid in the situation, but then he sighs, exchanging a quick look with Dwalin, who merely nods.

“Alright then,” Bilbo sighs, “if you could, erm... follow me.”

Bard rises from his seat gracefully, maintaining that aloof professionalism until Bilbo leads him away from the room and into the kitchen, which is, fortunately, deserted.

“It is _so_ good to see you in one piece, Bilbo,” he grins then, “this is a wonderful opportunity.”

Bilbo just stares, and instead of exclaiming desperately _'An opportunity for what, exactly?!',_ he just sighs again, for what might be the hundredth time that day, and asks: “How do you take your coffee?”

He suddenly feels immensely tired, and it isn't even lunchtime yet.

“Oh, strong, lots of sugar, no milk. Listen,” Bard chatters away without a care in the world, “I will want to make an official interview with you, but, you know... Just as the Princes' guardian, not the guy who has Smaug Bundushar on his tail.”

He laughs, and Bilbo shudders, his hand with the spoonful of ground coffee freezing in mid-air. Hilarious.

“I'm not a very good actor. Or a liar,” he mutters quietly.

“Nonsense!” Bard exclaims, “you've been doing wonderfully well so far! We would have gotten nowhere without you!”

“Oh?” Bilbo remarks icily, “and where exactly is it that you've gotten?”

“Oh, right, you still don't know! Well, for starters, we now have a pretty good idea of what Bundushar might do during the Peace celebrations. Well... Gandalf's people do. He doesn't share much. But anyway, about that rally...-”

“And who do we have here?”

That's Deidre coming into the kitchen, and Bilbo feels the relief washing over him as he finally turns away from the counter – he was a bit afraid he might strangle Bard, or start shouting profanities.

“This is Bard Ibindikhel, of the Erebor _A_ _mradînhund,_ ” Bilbo introduces the journalist, “he's here to, well... help? For a lack of a better word?”

Bard laughs jovially and gets up from the table, shaking Deidre's hand.

“ _Shamukh_ _aimâ_ ,” he smiles, yet again very professionally charming, “His Majesty wants The _A_ _mradînhund_ to handle this horrible business.”

“A terrible idea, really,” Deidre offers shortly, and when Bard's brow furrows in confusion, she smirks at Bilbo, who grins right back – oh, the wonders of having someone of sound mind in the room.

“I'm just saying,” the maid continues, motioning for Bilbo to sit down and taking over the coffee preparations, “The _A_ _mradînhund_ certainly isn't what it used to be. No offense. I remember the days before the revolution, after that old _turg_ Girion sold it to... who was it?”

“Laura Ibindikhel,” comes an uncharacteristically quiet reply.

“Oh, right, right, that's the name. Hold on, any family ties between the two of you?”

“She was my mother.”

Bilbo marvels at Deidre's ability to take it all in stride, really.

“I see, I see,” she mutters, pouring hot water into not one, but three mugs already, and Bilbo doesn't dare argue out loud that a third coffee might just be the death of him.

“Well, she was a wonderful lady,” Deidre adds, “quite lovely. Almost got onto something there with Bundushar – should have been the one to bring him down, if you ask me.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Bard nods, “which is why I see this as an opportunity to finish what she started, you see.”

“You really believe Bundushar is involved?” Deidre asks.

“It's... a possibility we're considering,” Bard affirms, and Bilbo wonders if anyone has picked up on his own spiking nervousness.

“Interesting,” Deidre says slowly, scrutinizing the journalist across the table.

“It is,” he nods, “whether he is involved or not, this... thing is a good chance for The _A_ _mradînhund_ to regain its former glory, if you will.”

She narrows her eyes, but Bard plays his role of a young, handsome idealist impeccably, a small smile dancing on his lips, his dark eyes, always somehow a bit sad by default, doing all the work for him.

“Well, I think that's very brave of you,” Deidre says at last, “good luck – _o_ _i_ _,_ _kurduh_ _!_ ”

At that very moment, Fili bursts into the kitchen, a chaotic flurry of arms, exclaiming: “Bilbo, Bilbo! Come quick! Kili is all drenched, you need to see this!”, before he notices Bard at the table and calms down somewhat, but still all but bounces at the spot.

“Kili is... what?” Bilbo babbles, “why on earth would he be drenched?”

“We went to the waterfall, and he slipped and fell into the water!” Fili grins, “come on!”

“Oh dear, is he alright?” Bilbo jumps up, eternally grateful for the interruption.

“Yeah, he's dripping on the front porch,” Fili explains frantically, “come on!”

Bilbo only spares a fleeting look to Bard, who snickers and shrugs, and follows the Prince, Deidre trailing behind. He can't help but burst into laughter when he sees the scene on the veranda by the main entrance – three tall, burly security guards stand around awkwardly as Kili pulls his t-shirt over his head, wearing nothing but his Spiderman boxers, and hands it to Beorn, who squeezes the leftover water out of it, and then spreads it onto the wood of the veranda, next to the boy's shorts, socks and even shoes.

“Are you _alright?_ ” Bilbo cries while Deidre laughs gleefully as well, “what happened?!”

“I'm fine!” Kili giggles, his curls wet and sticking to his forehead, “I thought I saw a fish, and I followed it!”

“Nose first,” Beorn chuckles.

“I drank from the waterfall,” Kili explains joyfully, “it's supposed to be good luck!”

“Not like that it isn't,” Beorn grins, and Bilbo can't stop laughing, even though he notices the boy's lips are already turning a shade of blue – the sun is up high, but it's not as warm here, in the middle of the forest, as it would be down in the city, and they can't have the Prince jump around in nothing but his underwear for too long, surely.

“Let's get you inside, and changed,” Bilbo orders Kili, and he follows obediently, bare feet patting on the tiled floor in the hallway.

“It's so cold!” the boy hisses, and indeed, the inside of the house is pleasantly cool for someone wanting to escape the heat of the fading summer, but certainly not so great for someone as thoroughly drenched as the Prince.

“Come on,” Bilbo sighs, and when Kili climbs into his arms eagerly, it's his turn to exclaim: “Oh, but you're freezing! You need a dry change of clothes, and quickly, before you catch a cold.”

He carries the boy to his bedroom, followed closely by Fili, and makes him put on thick socks and a cardigan, at least until he stops shivering, then dries his hair with a towel quite unceremoniously while Kili squirms and giggles.

“Come on, now,” Bilbo orders both boys afterward, “lunch will be ready soon, and it's much warmer downstairs.”

A cup of tea already awaits Kili at the table in the kitchen, and Deidre scolds him gently until he drinks it all, and Bilbo realizes he's managed to go about fifteen minutes without feeling absolutely guilt-ridden, or anxious, or in pain, and it's a blessing, really. The Princes are a blessing, he decides, watching them squabble over the jug of orange juice on the table, Kili losing all interest in it very quickly when Muzmith graces the room with her presence and jumps into his lap, settling in and purring... Oh, if only the worst of Bilbo's worries were to make sure Kili sits still during lunch, and Fili doesn't drink all the juice at once.

Deidre informs him that Bard has disappeared to talk about something no doubt very important with Dwalin and Gandalf, and Bilbo is quite grateful he doesn't get to see either of them until long after the meal. He makes sure the boys don't start playing football, or fetch, or anything quite so physically demanding right after gobbling down a generous portion of Deidre's mashed potatoes in record time. Fili settles in with a book in the rocking chair on the veranda in the backyard while Kili decides to doodle his encounter with the waterfall, and Bilbo is glad he picks a spot in the sunlight, his hair already drying and standing about his hair like a messy, curly halo.

For his part, Bilbo hopes he might finally crack open that copy of Frost he found in his bedroom earlier, but luck certainly isn't with him that day. The King returns, and he is summoned to the drawing room, Deidre taking over the one duty he'd hoped he'd spend the rest of the day on – keeping an eye on the Princes.

He saunters to join the others rather reluctantly, almost wincing in pain when he's faced with Thorin head on, the two of them almost colliding in the doorway and shuffling about awkwardly – Bilbo almost swallows his tongue when the grip of one firm hand on his shoulder steadies him and gently pushes him aside so that the King may pass, and he thinks about the utter, horrific unfairness of the whole situation. Quite absentmindedly, he watches Thorin pacing in the hall, taking care of some last-minute call, until the King gazes at him, and Bilbo looks away hastily, a blush creeping into his cheeks. He wonders when exactly he turned into that fumbling sod from those barely-quality romantic comedies, on top of everything.

Convincing himself that this is the least of his worries right now, he concentrates on everyone else in the room. Bard is speaking in hushed tones with Balin, who looks displeased at best, and Dwalin is showing something to Gandalf on one of his security monitors, and soon, Bilbo feels horrendously out of place.

“Apologies for the delay,” the King declares then, returning to the room out of the blue and almost making Bilbo flinch, “Mister Ibindikhel, if you would.”

“Yes, of course,” Bard nods, “the idea is this – The _A_ _mradînhund_ will run a story about the attack in the Sunday morning edition. As we all know, Monday marks the beginning of the Court Week-” Bilbo tries to remember what all that is about, but fails, “-which means the Senate rests – this is a good opportunity for the police to work uninterrupted, and for us to begin a tactical pressure on the media. I am confident that if the public sees that the Crown remains unswayed, the lack of results regarding the attack will prove only a minor hindrance...”

Bilbo listens, quiet as a mouse and feeling about as tiny and helpless, doing his best to retain a serious look despite being largely lost, and more importantly, despite the almost burning urge to steal glances at Thorin. He wrings his hands in his lap, fiddling with his wristwatch absentmindedly, and remembers the way their fingers entwined, the warmth of the King's larger hand in his, and of course, the softness of his skin under Bilbo's fingertips, for that one fleeting, shining moment when he was allowed to feel it... It didn't even last two minutes, and it hasn't even been twenty four hours, and already, Bilbo is coming undone so desperately it's almost ridiculous. No, it's very, _very_ ridiculous, he decides when he snaps out of his haze to see that the room has gone quiet, and everybody's looking at him – clearly he missed something.

“I'm... sorry, I wasn't...” he stammers, and his guilt plummets sky high when he notices the King sighing almost imperceptibly, turning away and rubbing his forehead.

“The interview I told you about,” Gandalf says gently, and Bilbo remembers with unpleasant clarity.

“If you're alright with it, Professor Baggins, I'd like to ask you a few questions about that night,” Bard says casually, and Bilbo is reminded that as far as everyone else in the room is concerned, the two of them don't know each other almost at all – and how bizarre is that?

“I'm, uh... yes, I suppose that's fine,” he replies timidly.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Balin tells him calmly, “the confidentiality agreement within your contract is bound to protect you from, shall we say, _too much_ interest.”

The Chief of Staff gives Bard a rather nasty look, but the journalist seems to ignore it, and for his part Bilbo really wants to know if the confidentiality agreement within his contract also protects him from power-crazed shady millionaires who will stop at nothing to ensure that he keeps his mouth shut. 

“A-alright then,” he peeps.

“Know that you're not obliged to answer everything,” Balin continues flatly, despite Bard's not-so-discreet sigh, “and if you ever feel pressured in any way, there's no shame in walking away.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but the sheer, laughable relevance of those words in regards to his whole situation renders him speechless. _Why didn't anyone tell me that a month ago, or six?,_ he wants to cry, _perhaps I would have listened, and never gotten myself into this mess in the first place._

But then he catches the King's gaze, before he averts his eyes and inspects something on his phone, and he thinks, _oh, screw it._

“Walking away is no fun at all,” he says much more clearly and serenely than he's actually feeling, not even pausing to wait for Thorin's reaction and adding, “I suppose we're doing this now, then?”

His heart does leap a bit painfully then, because Thorin is glaring straight at him, frowning slightly, more of a confusion than anything else, and Bilbo only ever tears his eyes away when Bard declares: “Yes, time is of the essence. Anywhere we can speak without interruptions?”

“The sitting room,” Dwalin suggests, “I'll make sure you have your privacy.”

“Keep it short,” Balin adds sternly, and Bard merely smiles at him, rather icily.

“Can we?” he motions to Bilbo, who simply nods and stands up.

He feels a bit more capable of breathing calmly than he did thirty seconds ago, a bit braver, and he dares seek out Thorin before he follows Bard out of the room – the King isn't looking at him anymore, but Bilbo knows right there and then that if they're ever going to want to coexist in one room again, they're going to have to talk. It fills him with a sort of hollow dread, but also something he'd call eagerness if he didn't know better. All of this, the interview with Bard (whatever the nature of _that_ will be), now feels like an unnecessary delay – perhaps trying to make things right with the King is actually the most pressing of his troubles, Bilbo ponders. Perhaps there's a way of telling Thorin about all this somewhat normally, and convincing him that Bilbo really has been trying to help, just help, to his best (poor) knowledge? He's suddenly adamant to try and find out.

But yes, first things first – he spends the next thirty minutes answering questions that are masterfully chosen to be as innocent as possible. He has to give it to Bard – he seems to have a solid grasp on the situation, and his agenda, and he won't have anyone jeopardize that, not even Bilbo fumbling for the right words. He lulls him into a false sense of complacency by asking him very solemnly about the Princes, and about his impressions of the country, all the while the red recorder light blinks up at them, the device looking somewhat out of place, sitting on an antique coffee table between the two of them. 

Only when Bard switches it off does Bilbo's anxiety return.

“Right, that's that,” the journalist says, looking pleased, “now for the unofficial part.”

As if summoned by some spell, Gandalf invites himself into the room at that very moment, and Bilbo reclines in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, because he suddenly feels a bit vulnerable.

“Please don't tell me you want me to go to anymore rallies, or secret meetings, or, you know, any other events that include the possibility of gruesome death,” he grumbles, and Gandalf and Bard exchange an amused look.

“You've had a fair share of those for one lifetime, I think,” Gandalf chuckles.

“I'm glad we agree on that.”

“Nevertheless,” the high school professor slash top secret agent continues, “you're going to have to go out there one more time.”

Bilbo simply stares at him for quite some time, waiting for his face to give any indication of it all being just one big joke, but Gandalf merely gazes back, his eyebrows arched expectantly.

“Out there – out _where?_ ” Bilbo groans.

“Bundushar has been very calm so far,” Gandalf explains matter-of-factly, “his every move is calculated perfectly, and he's very careful about letting anyone that isn't Azog Karkâl or his closest, near. We need to... rile him up enough to make a mistake. Lure him out to reveal his true colors.”

“Alright, let's make one thing perfectly clear,” Bilbo says very resolutely, feeling nothing but cool determination at that point, “ _you_ need him to make a mistake and lure him out. What _I_ need, is some peace of mind. I've just about had enough of this.”

“Bilbo...” Bard tries, but Bilbo raises his hand sternly.

“The Princes and the King were put in danger, because of me,” he continues dryly, leaving no room for interruptions, “the bloody Palace was _attacked,_ because of me. I genuinely don't know what possessed me to take part in all of this in the first place, but I don't want it anymore. I don't want any part in any of your schemes, Gandalf, or any of your vendettas, Bard, no offense. All I ever wanted – and you will remember I wasn't particularly keen on that either at the beginning – was to take care of the Princes, and maybe learn a new language. Then all of... _this_ came along, and I'm tired. I'm just _so very tired._ Please, just tell me there's a way out of this – I just want to fix whatever mess I've made, and I can't see why I can't just tell the truth already...-”

“You do have a choice,” Gandalf supplies quietly, but seriously, “you could always go back to England.”

Bilbo scoffs at him, then frowns in confusion.

“I don't...”

“You could go back home,” Gandalf tells him very clearly, “and forget all about Erebor, and live out the rest of your life relatively peacefully. You'd never hear of Smaug Bundushar, or Azog Karkâl, or either of us for that matter, ever again – I'd make sure of that. But as long as you're here, and you're so close to the royal family, you can't just decide _not_ to take part. I'm sorry. I'm doing my best to keep you safe, but _you_ were the one who agreed to help. I do admit I haven't always been completely clear with you, but I can't promise you much change in that in the future. 

In conclusion, you can either go home, or stay and see this through to the end, whatever it might be. We still need your help, and _trust me_ when I say that this could all get much, much worse.”

“That's not fair,” Bilbo exhales weakly, curling up on himself in the chair, and Gandalf smiles somberly, and for a fleeting moment, he's the one Bilbo used to know, the man who'd summon him to his office back at Bree at odd hours of the day just to chat, drink coffee and escape their duties for twenty minutes.

“I agree,” he says solemnly.

“And the King?” Bilbo asks.

“What about him?”

“Why can't we tell him what's really going on? He still thinks someone tried to assassinate him, for crying out loud! Surely things would move along much more smoothly were he to know what really went down...”

“We don't think Bundushar was _actually_ trying to hurt you,” Bard offers, and Bilbo huffs a dry, disbelieving laugh.

“Right. That's why he sent all those armed commandos – to politely ask me to be quiet.”

“The general consensus is that he meant to kidnap you,” Bard says simply, and Bilbo's mouth hangs agape.

“H-he did?” he mewls.

“He's brilliant at scare tactics,” Gandalf adds, “even though he failed, he managed to cause quite the uproar, and at the least convenient time, too. He's not interested in playing this game the politically correct way, Bilbo, I think he's made that very clear. Do you remember that man we saw in the Karkâl mansion, the one in the hospital bed?”

“How I wish I could forget,” Bilbo mumbles.

“He's Bundushar's biggest gamble, and his one-way ticket to glory, at the same time,” Gandalf declares sickeningly seriously, “he's-”

“No,” Bilbo blurts out, raising both his hands defensively, “no no. I don't want to know who he is. Please, spare me.”

 

There have been so many things in his life he wishes he never learned. That Archie Carmichael, his first big crush, was not only dating Bilbo's own cousin, but was also laughing at him behind his back for months. That his father had left him a considerable amount of money in his will, which somehow dissolved into the Sackville part of the family before he reached the rightful age of eighteen. That his mother knew she was dying long before she decided to tell her only son. Those are only a few of the things Bilbo is quite sure he could live without, and he certainly never wanted to add to the pile.

Once again, he decides he was most probably doomed from the second he made Gandalf that first cup of coffee when he appeared out of the blue in his school, what now seems like a lifetime ago. He forces himself not to think about how easy it was, deciding to plunge headfirst into the unknown, both actually leaving for Erebor, and then a bit later, deciding to partake in this... this charade, convincing himself that he's actually helping the King. The King...

All of his former resolve is gone now, and he's well and truly terrified of even catching a glimpse of Thorin, after what he's learned. Gandalf made him swear he wouldn't tell, but as far as Bilbo is concerned, the only way to ensure that is to sow his own mouth shut. He's caused so much suffering already, inadvertently or otherwise! Thorin probably hates him, or even worse, thinks Bilbo hates _him,_ and then has the whole country to worry about on top of that, and now...

He lies very, very still that night, utterly incapable of falling asleep, gloomy being the mildest word to describe his thoughts, and he shoots upright with a gasp when there's a gentle knock on his door. For a second, he actually expects Thorin to be there, but it's Fili who walks in carefully, pale as a ghost.

“What are you doing up?” Bilbo demands gently, his own beating heart calming down only very slowly.

“I think Kili's sick,” the boy murmurs, “he keeps tossing and turning, and asking for water, and I couldn't get him to go back to sleep, and...”

“Alright, alright,” Bilbo hushes him, sliding out of the bed without a hint of exhaustion, “don't worry, I'll take a look at him.”

He follows the boy to his and his brother's bedroom just around the corner, and he thinks to himself, _see? Here we go again – this is something you could keep doing for the rest of your life, but god forbid anything ever be that simple._ It's almost ridiculous, how the Princes can distract him from his worries so thoroughly, and always do so when he needs it the most, but how long will that last?

He forgets all else quite quickly, though, because he finds Kili sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes and sniffling softly.

“What's wrong?” Bilbo asks him, sitting down next to him, and the boy merely hugs his own knees and buries his face away, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“Are you hurting?” Bilbo prods on, soothing his hair and seeing that it's damp with sweat, “are you hot? Come here, let me take a look at you.”

He makes Kili sit up straight, and presses his palm flat against his forehead, sighing raggedly.

“Oh, you're burning up. I'm afraid drinking out of that waterfall today was anything but lucky!”

“My throat hurts,” the boy whimpers, and coughs weakly to demonstrate.

“Yes, I can imagine,” Bilbo sighs, “alright then, lie down and wait for me – I'll bring you a glass of water.”

“No-o,” Kili whines, “I wanna go with you.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo chuckles, “you just lie right down, you're in no state to be wandering about the house. Do you know what time it is?”

“Half past one!” Fili supplies.

“Half past one?!” Bilbo exclaims in exaggerated horror, “we can't have you running around so late, either of you!”

“But it _hurts,_ ” Kili complains, “I don't want to lie down.”

“Alright, you don't have to lie down, but stay in your bed,” Bilbo orders, “Fili, keep an eye on your brother.”

The older Prince sighs and nods, climbing over to Kili and putting one careful hand on his back, and Bilbo hurries out of the room and downstairs, as quietly as he can, hoping very intensely that he doesn't run into anyone, and also trying not to think that this time last night, him and Thorin were probably seconds away from ruining their, eh, relationship. And by some miracle, that was _not_ the absolute worst thing that happened to Bilbo in the past twenty four hours.

He forces himself to worry about Kili now – he checks the shelves and cupboards in the kitchen for any sort of medical kit that might contain something to ease his suffering. If it only took him a couple of hours to feel this bad, Bilbo wonders what the poor boy will feel like in the morning...

“Everything alright?”

Thorin appears like a mirage, and Bilbo actually flinches, the half-filled glass of water slipping out of his hand and clattering loudly as it lands in the sink. He groans, picks it up again and refills it, before finally turning to look at the King, who stands in the doorway, and – _oh, you're joking._ He's only wearing a faded t-shirt and boxers, and beyond battling his shock _and_ the blush creeping into his cheeks, Bilbo can't help but wonder – _is this really how royalty sleeps?_ For some reason, he expected a... a silk pajamas, at least. God, if he could slap himself to remind himself of reality, he most certainly would.

“Ah... It looks like Kili's sick,” he manages.

“What – how come?”

“Well, I don't think if anyone told you,” Bilbo explains, desperately struggling to do something, anything that would let him look away, “but Mister Beorn took the boys to see a waterfall in the forest today, and apparently Kili slipped and fell into the water – he's perfectly fine,” he hastens to add when Thorin opens his mouth to protest, “it's just that... well, he might have caught a cold. The first thing he did was strip off all his clothes and lay them out to dry when he got here, it was quite a show, but, well, today wasn't the warmest, and I'm pretty sure he was freezing before I managed to get him into a dry change of clothes...”

His voice gradually dies off under Thorin's look, and the tense awkwardness of it all is more than palpable in the air then – the King's lips are curved in the faintest hint of a smile, somewhat pained, and Bilbo is certain he mirrors his expression perfectly. 

“You didn't go with them?” Thorin asks, “to the waterfall?”

“Oh, no, no, I was actually, eh...”

_Promising Dwalin I wouldn't hope for much._

“Dwalin thought he'd teach me how to shoot. Apparently I'm a, how did he put it? Oh, yes, a weak link.”

He tries to make it sound like a joke, he really does, but he's hardly any good at that anymore, he fears – a ghost of some darker emotion flashes over Thorin's face, and he sighs, raking his hand through his hair.

“You know, sometimes he says things-”

“Oh, no, that's quite alright, I mean he's hardly wrong-”

Both their attempts at saying something even remotely normal end in vain at the same time, and they're left with one uneasy chuckle each, and a horrible case of awkward silence.

“He'll be fine,” Bilbo manages at last, somewhat shakily, his gaze dropping to the ground, “Kili, I mean. I'll check if he has a fever in the morning, but I'm sure it'll pass in no time-”

“ _Indâd_ , I'm sick,” a quiet whimper is heard then, and Kili appears at Thorin side, reaching up and tugging at his hand.

“Oh, but I told you to stay in bed, didn't I?” Bilbo scolds the boy gently.

“I wanted Fili to talk to me, but he fell asleep again,” Kili declares, almost offended that his brother would dare commit such atrocity.

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but when Kili reaches up for Thorin, and he scoops him up in his arms, he finds he's quite incapable of getting any words past that painful lump in his throat.

“ _Sakhab zaizu_ _,_ _a_ _khûnith,_ ” The King murmurs to his nephew, “you're all pale. Let's get you back to bed.”

“Water first,” Kili orders.

“Oh, right, water first,” Thorin chuckles, and looks briefly at Bilbo, who offers up the glass wordlessly.

Thorin takes it from him, and stands close by as Kili takes a couple of careful sips, and their fingers brushing, or the literal waves of body heat radiating off him like he's some sort of a furnace, are very resolutely the very _last_ thing on Bilbo's mind.

“We'll put the rest of this by your bed for the morning, what do you say?” the King says softly when Kili's finished, and the boy nods, laying his head on Thorin's shoulder, and Bilbo follows them up the stairs reluctantly – he's suddenly painfully reminded of that one evening so long ago, when the King and him came rushing into the night in the search of Fili, and Thorin carried him back home with his sprained ankle, very much the same way he's now nursing Kili... Not even the change his relationship with the boys has gone through since then is enough to make Bilbo feel better.

He suddenly feels an ineffable urge to stop Thorin right there and then, and tell him everything, no matter the outcome. He falters and stops completely when they reach the window that was the witness to their kiss last night, and he finds he can't go on. The King and Kili don't even notice, and Bilbo watches them disappear around the corner, and thinks, _give it five minutes, he'll walk right back out, wearing nothing but his stupid big thin t-shirt and stupid casual boxers, and you'll be right where you were last night. ...Has it really only been a day?_ It feels like he's aged decades since then.

No, he disappears into his room, shutting the door as quietly as he can. After all, what would he say? Gandalf was right – this is best kept a secret for now. Which raises the question of why he felt the need to confide in Bilbo! He tried, oh god did he try, to tell him that he couldn't bear it, but no, both Bard and Gandalf seemed far too eager to tell him...

He climbs back into his bed, the sheets unpleasantly cool, holds his breath and listens for footsteps, but hears nothing. He toys with the idea of just running out of the room, and finding Thorin, and spilling his guts, but then again how would that sound? Explaining the whole litany of Bilbo's Fun Erebor Experience with Smaug Bundushar and Azog Karkâl, and topping it all off with an off-hand ' _Oh, by the way, I've just been informed that your long-lost father is still alive, and has been lying in a medically induced coma, hidden away_ _from the world for purposes far beyond my understanding, and your liking_ '?Definitely not the way to go.

He shuffles in his bed, fighting for at least a marginally comfortable position, and decides that on the list of things he never ever wanted or needed to know, this definitely takes the cake.

* * *

**Dictionary:**   


_Oi, kurduh!_ \- Oh my! / Oh dear!

_Sakhab zaizu_ \- Look at you

_Shamukh aimâ_ \- A pleasure to meet you

_Turg_ \- Sod / Bastard / Poophead (you get the idea) **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, you guys have to forgive me for this chapter - it went in very many unexpected ways, none of them particularly savory... I swear I was aiming for much more bagginshield, for instance. And ignore the final chapter count, I can sense that's going to keep changing a lot as I work on these last few chapters...


	14. Chapter 14

Bilbo knows fear, or versions of it – the sort of reckless thrill that children experience when they do something forbidden. The fear of rejection, bitter and mind-numbing, spiraling deeper and deeper into anxiety, and even when they tell you it's alright, you don't owe the world a thing, be yourself, it's still there. It's funny, he thinks, that quite a number of people in his life have considered him brave. His students would tell him that he inspired them, they admired his sheer recklessness, not knowing that it was the sort of determination stemming from his inability to stay still, to stay in a rut, when the challenge to change things presented itself, rather than bravery in the usual sense of the word. Back at Bree, he was very young, too young to see that spotting the potential for change was all good, but pursuing it meant more worry and responsibility than he was perhaps prepared for. He would speak to sixteen-year-olds about standing up for themselves, refusing to conform, carving out a path for themselves, without really realizing the full extent of his words himself. To this day, he knows the decision to quit the job that he'd thought he could spend the rest of his life with wasn't really a failure, but that doesn't change the fact that he sometimes wishes he stayed.

 _In time, all the bad things will be forgotten, and the good things ingrained in your memory forever._ His mother used to say this, and she called it a blessing in disguise. Yet another person who had so much faith in his bravery – she was the one who helped him come to terms with who he was, but he never saw any bravery in sticking to that, clinging to that one thing he was certain of about himself. No, it's always been about self-preservation – he remembers fondly the years spent in the US, entirely too full of himself, instant gratification in the form of his similar minded friends at hand whenever he required it, free, unhindered, in many ways at his very best.

Coming back home was something he promised, and in the end, was glad of it. He'd had many desires, to travel, to explore every possible part of the world in search of... something – it was only typical, not really knowing what he wanted, he tells himself even now. But then the job at Bree appeared virtually out of nowhere, and he thought he could settle there for a year or three, and if it started boring him out of his mind, well, that would be his cue to move on again. He thought like that back then, in terms of _settling_ , and _moving on_ , and _carpe diem_ , and so it was no wonder the news of his mother's illness had struck him entirely unprepared. He experienced a new kind of fear then, the fear of wasting too much time and failing to notice and value the things that really mattered. Even more so because Belladonna had taken her time with telling him the bad news, thought it would be 'detrimental to his success'. For the longest time, Bilbo thought she cried with happiness when he announced his new employment, but all at once, he realized why she thought she couldn't reveal her sickness to him then – it made him both immensely sad and ineffably angry, and he barely moved from her side from then on, until the end.

The fear he experienced after she died, the late afternoon after her funeral, sitting utterly alone in a house that had always been teeming with life when he was a child, made his chest feel so tight he didn't think he'd breathe properly ever again, and all his successes utterly pointless. It was the fear of suddenly being all alone – he had been a good son, called his mother regularly when he was gone, sent her postcards, spent the holidays with her, but he never really realized just how much he'd relied on her presence until she was gone.

He locked all his insecurities away, transforming his work into a battle, as much as it allowed for that, and told himself that she would want him to fight, because surely fighting meant moving on? He told himself he was done with fear, that he'd learned enough of it to know that it was, indeed, detrimental to his successes. That the frighteningly bottomless void of facing the world alone would be the very last version of fear he'd ever feel. Of course, in all his determination and acquired boldness, he neglected to remember another thing his mother used to say to him – recognize when you're wrong.

Those words only ever came to him years later, stuck in a small, dingy apartment all on his own, looking at a lifetime of teaching very basic literature to reluctant teens, and he realized then that he had been sapped of the ability to feel anything but bitter about it all. Gandalf coming along and planting the file with the Ereborean royal coat of arms on the cover in between Bilbo's binders in his satchel was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years, and it took him only a night or two to admit that.

He packed his bags and went for it because he felt alive, truly alive, for the first time since Bree, and he thought it was enough. The word 'adventure' meant 'unnecessary recklessness' back then, which somehow still transformed into 'fun' in Bilbo's eyes. He didn't stop for a moment to think where it might take him, what it might mean – he saw no danger, only risk, and the opportunity to move on, to live, to breathe again.

 

He finds he can't quite breathe now – not freely, not anymore. The thought should worry him, but he doesn't feel unease; only anger. He's displeased with himself for taking so long to realize where this was all headed. For the first time since he came to Erebor, he actually ponders the benefits of returning to England. Something about returning to his roots, if briefly. He knows he can't keep this up for much longer. So far, he's only ever been frightened, thinking about what would come after the inevitable happened, after the other shoe dropped at last – it's always felt like he wouldn't have a place to go, the thought of returning to his teeny tiny apartment too off-putting to even fathom. But now...

He doesn't really know why, but he looks into it, though it still makes him feel profoundly guilty – Kili is sleeping, his breathing a bit laborious what with the sickness, and Fili's downstairs, Deidre and Beorn teaching him to bake (mostly by bickering, from what Bilbo understands), and the room smells of herbal tea and honey. Bilbo sits on the carpet, his back against the Prince's bed, his tablet on his knees, and types up a couple of short e-mails – he even braves sending a brief message to Aunt Lobelia, to catch up with the family, fully expecting a prickly reply. But he's more interested in receiving a reply to his inquiry about his old apartment – early on (months ago? It feels like a year at least), he settled the issue of his abrupt departure with his landlord Mr Gaffer smoothly only thanks to Gandalf's help. The apartment is being sublet, the money going to Gaffer, but somehow, the old cheapskate agreed to let Bilbo move back in, if... opportunity arose. Not that it ever would, no. It was not so long ago that Bilbo planned on staying forever, after all. He forgot about the deal for a good long while, and his stomach flutters unpleasantly now as he sends the e-mail, even though it's just a simple polite inquiry, to see how his landlord is doing, is the apartment lived-in, et cetera, et cetera.

But that's just it – a month ago, no, two weeks ago, Bilbo wouldn't have even considered thinking about all of this. At some point, Erebor became his new home. But what he's come to love about it, the culture, the city itself, the people... all of that seems so far away now, impossibly out of reach here, in this old house in the middle of nowhere. He gazes at the little sleeping boy, his face buried in his pillow, nothing but dark damp curls visible of him from under the blanket, even though the day is warm enough, and somehow, he thinks of his old home. The house Bilbo grew up in was smaller than this mansion by a long shot, the staircase leading up to the bedrooms narrow and crooked, the walls covered in faded wallpapers with delicate flower patterns, the kitchen barely big enough for three people to meet in for every meal, and yet... There was also a chest in his parents' old bedroom, Bilbo remembers, wicker with a leather strap, that was full of photo albums. The sense he got when he was, at last, so very alone in it after his mother died, was the same he felt when him and the Princes first went exploring this manor – just the echo of a once happy life, children and laughter, and visits and large dinners, all gone now, all dead. Bilbo stayed in that house as long as he was able, because it was close to his work after all, but sleeping in his childhood bedroom became increasingly harder, and in the end, he was glad when cousin Primula moved in – her own family was just starting to grow, and Bilbo was happy to get out of their way, the idea of the walls soaking up entirely new memories too painful for him to stomach.

He wonders if Thorin feels the same, remembering the people from the photographs walking through the hallways, pausing when he sees Deidre in the kitchen, so much older now than she was in the pictures, but essentially the only proof that it all really did happen, that the memories are real... He wonders if he might summon the courage to ask him one day, and share his story – he wonders if it would help anything at all.

Kili stirs and mumbles something incomprehensible, and Bilbo's chest swells in fondness when he sees that the Prince is waking up, slowly, reluctantly, cheeks red and eyes heavy-lidded. Bilbo has never considered himself one for paternal (maternal?) instincts, but fussing over the boys comes entirely naturally to him – imagining giving that up is perhaps the hardest part of this whole unfortunate predicament.

“Hello,” he mumbles, “how are you feeling?”

Kili whimpers and sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes weakly and shrugging.

“Here,” Bilbo hands him a mug of tea, long since gone cold, “you'll feel better, I promise.”

Kili drinks in deep, thirsty gulps, his dark eyes blinking at Bilbo, and at last, he finishes, wiping his mouth and asking: “ _Kulhu darûn_ _?_ ”

Bilbo smiles – the boy is probably too disoriented to switch into English, but still, he has made a deal with both Princes to speak to him in simple Khuzdul whenever they can, and he's a bit proud for understanding more and more.

“Almost six, dinner will be served soon,” he replies, “do you think you'll want to eat?”

“What are we having?”

“Not sure, but I think I heard something about pancakes.”

Kili smiles at that, a testament to the severity of his fever – pancakes are his favorite food, and at any other time, he'd be out of the room and sprinting to the kitchen before Bilbo could even get up.

“Fili's downstairs, determined to make some of the pancakes himself,” Bilbo tells the Prince as he clambers out of bed and into a warm cardigan, “I thought I should warn you.”

“Where's Muzmith?”

“The last I saw of her, she was sunbathing on the veranda. I'll find her.”

“And _Indâd_? Is he coming for dinner?”

“We'll see,” Bilbo mumbles, his voice carefully unwavering, and takes Kili's hand, leading him downstairs slowly.

It's been four days now (he tells himself it's impossible not to keep count, what with how little there is to do every day), and he and Thorin still haven't made any progress when it comes to occupying the same space. Bilbo is, frankly, glad that Kili keeps him occupied, and that the King has enough to worry about himself, because cluelessness seems to be the default setting on both sides otherwise. Of course, Bilbo is weighed down by the added value of his stomach twisting in anxious knots every time Thorin gives him but a sliver of attention – there is so much he's not telling the King, so much he _should_ be telling the King, and he's certain prolonged exposure to his glare, or simply just his presence, would cause all that to come spilling out. Gandalf made him promise he wouldn't say anything, and it was an easy promise to make, and an excruciating one to keep.

Bilbo finds it easier to concentrate on his growing hatred for the schemes going on behind his back – neither Bard nor Gandalf have made contact with him ever since they decided to dump the secret of Thorin's father on his shoulders, and with too much time on his hands, Bilbo is beginning to connect the dots. Well, some dots. How long has Gandalf been planning all this? Did he send him to Erebor with a promise of great adventures, and 'the time of his life', all the while knowing he'd eventually convince him to get all tangled up in this?

Bilbo has long since given up on trying to find out who Gandalf really is – he researched him, too, but all the Internet revealed were dozens of articles in archeology magazines, and photos from his time as the Principal of Bree, which only served to make Bilbo feel unbearably nostalgic. It had all been very vague, and in the last year, nothing at all. As for Bard, Bilbo got his hands on his mother's book, _Monarchy versus the modern world,_ found a copy in one of the dusty bookshelves in the drawing room, and read the thin volume in two sittings, admiring the zest with which Laura Ibindikhel defended the monarchy, describing its path throughout the twentieth century with ease, not shying away from reminding the reader of the more questionable parts of the reign, only to use them as examples of the Crown's ability to overcome any obstacle. The whole thing was honestly laced with foreshadowing, and Bilbo understands it came out mere years before the revolution, too.

But still, he remains painfully helpless when it comes to figuring out what's going to happen next – he feels increasingly more like a pawn in the whole situation, and he'd like to have words with both the men who dragged him into this.

They make it seem like something big and pivotal and massively important is coming, but there's so much that escapes Bilbo, so much he can't see no matter how hard he tries – there is a big picture, but he's pretty sure he's only caught a glimpse of about one hundredth of it, and not even the good part, but the fuzzy bits in the middle with bold dashes of colors and shapes that are doomed to remain meaningless to him until he gets some distance. Well, that's apt. He should write that down for when he inevitably does get engulfed by the big picture so thoroughly nothing will seem right anymore.

But for now, he seats Kili at the table in the kitchen, laughs at the flour on Fili's cheeks and in his hair, and the theatrically harrowed look on Deidre's face, and thinks, _well, at least I'll last today._ This is a very different sort of living in the present than he'd perhaps fancy, and it has to do with being too afraid to look to the future.

But Bilbo Baggins is not a coward, and won't see himself turn into one, which is why he doesn't even flinch when the King does join them for dinner – he ruffles Kili's hair gently and lets Fili show him the photos he took earlier that day before the meal is served, and in his quiet contemplation, Bilbo notices that he looks increasingly more tired. The comprehensive story on the attack came out in The Erebor _A_ _mradînhund_ just this morning, and it was an impressive piece indeed, but from what Bilbo understands, it served its purpose fully – to feed the press's interest, steer it away from the fact that the culprit is still unknown, and towards how well the Crown is handling the whole issue. Which means more public appearances for the King, to showcase that he can indeed withstand anything, no matter the coming elections, no matter the slowly rising ruckus surrounding the Peace celebrations. It's all about the Crown 'looking ahead', and about 'hard-won peace that will not be disturbed so easily'.

A part of Bilbo thinks it all a bit silly, sweeping it all under the rug just like that. Surely questions will arise, and surely, eventually, they will be the right ones. Bard and his people seem to be determined to smooth it all over with nice words and boldly chosen block titles, but Bilbo is quite certain that if not talking about an issue, but rather around it, can't really work in real life, it will hardly work in politics. Though he hates it, it seems that the only thing to do now is wait. Wait and see, and perhaps make sure he will have a place to stay once he's banished out of the country forever, or some such highly probable turn of events.

“Pardon?” he mumbles, registering too late that someone's been talking _at_ him.

“I asked if you'd be willing to accompany us to the showing,” Thorin, to Bilbo's surprise, says, his gaze steady as Bilbo desperately tries to remember what has been said in the room in the past couple of minutes.

“...The showing,” he parrots.

“You've got to come,” Fili adds, “there will be _arskanjinjel_ afterward, and the light show with the fountain, right, _Indâd_?”

“I believe so,” Thorin nods, smiling at his nephew, but his eyes narrowing a bit when Bilbo remains rather obviously confused.

“ _Mizukhel_ _!_ It's really something, Bilbo, the colors keep changing, and there's music to go with it, and it's really, really nice. Anyway, I'm finished, can I go read?”

“Wash your hands,” Bilbo mutters absentmindedly, only realizing a couple of seconds later that he'd said it in unison with Thorin.

“But I'm sick,” Kili whimpers after his brother runs off, stabbing his pancake with his fork weakly, “I wanna come, too.”

“You've got the whole week to get better,” Thorin says gently, “I'm sure you can manage that, right?”

“Not without proper sustenance,” Bilbo points out, “come on, five bites can feed an army.”

The words slide off his lips entirely without precedent, and he is quite literally punched in the face with memories of his mother willing his childhood sicknesses away with soup and mashed potatoes and the same phrase accompanying all that, and he feels, inexplicably, a bit better.

Kili battles with his dinner bravely, and wins, looking very pensive afterward.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks, and the boy sighs profoundly, his little shoulders heaving.

“I should go back to sleep now,” he declares very solemnly, “but I don't want to miss the bedtime story.”

“You haven't missed it once,” Bilbo chuckles, “and I intend to keep it that way.”

“You must wake me,” Kili orders, and he looks so very serious and yet so very fragile, still in his pajamas and thick socks, his hair ruined and sticking to his forehead, that Bilbo smiles, broad and warm, and doesn't stop even when he sees that the King responds to the sight in much the same way.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he offers, and Kili frowns at him, as if he can't quite figure out why Bilbo would even joke in a situation like this, but when Bilbo raises an eyebrow, he giggles and slides off his chair.

“Sleep now,” he declares, reaching out his hand to Bilbo.

“Do let Professor Baggins finish his dinner,” Thorin chimes in softly, “come, I'll take you.”

Bilbo's chest feels strangely tight as he watches them walk away, Kili soon getting tired and asking to be carried, with which the King agrees immediately – it occurs to him that this is it. They don't quite need him anymore. For all intents and purposes, he should be happy for them, proud even, for helping a bit along the way. Right.

A ragged sigh of his own escapes him, and he munches on his pancakes, absolutely delicious, but largely unsatisfactory, until Deidre finishes whistling and cleaning up her workplace, and sinks to the chair opposite him with a plate of her own.

“So,” she says conversationally, “how long do you think you'll be able to keep this up?”

Bilbo's fork freezes on its way to his mouth.

“Keep... keep what up?”

She doesn't know, there is no possible way in which she _could_ know, but it still takes Bilbo a little too long to reassure himself.

“The air is just stale whenever the two of you are in the same room,” Deidre continues lightly, as if she's talking about the weather, “you might try telling me it's none of my business, but I'd probably laugh at you.”

Bilbo concentrates very hard on swallowing his mouthful, even though his throat is suddenly unpleasantly tight, and he stares straight ahead at the table, his cheeks heating up.

“I don't,” he tries, “I can't...”

“You're only realizing that now?” she chuckles, but it's more amused, than anything else.

“I can't simply...” Bilbo makes another attempt, “I mean... what do you think is going on, exactly? Here? What are we...?”

It seems that all his eloquence has gone down the drain, definitively.

“Oh, _yâkùlib_ _Mahal_ _,_ ” she laughs, mouth full of pancakes, “I don't know. You tell me.”

Bilbo can't help but gape at her as she chews with a wide grin plastered over her face, and a questioning brow, and thinks, _I'm lost._

“I'm lost.”

She pfft's, but her grin dissolves into a gentle smile.

“Yes, I can see that,” she says softly, “you're not the only one, though. For what it's worth, I don't think either of you will find the right way on your own, you know.”

Bilbo's eyes widen as those words tug at his heart, but then laughter bubbles up in his throat, unexpected and a bit dry.

“Deidre, _please,_ ” he moans, and she sniggers.

“I know, sorry, that was horrible.”

“It really was.”

“I can't help it, I've always wanted to be the Hilda.”

“The – the what?”

“The Hilda?” she repeats, getting up from the table, having finished her meal in record time, “you know, from _Rem_ _B_ _ukhubâlâf_ _?_ ”

“Deidre, you forget I'm not a native Ereborean.”

“It's so easy,” she smiles at him over her shoulder, and such a small remark surely shouldn't make him feel so profoundly bad.

“Anyway,” she continues, “ _Rem_ _B_ _ukhubâlâf_ is one of our classics, came out when I was a girl, with Oskar Lagaburand and Bellinda Varudhul, oh, they were both so beautiful, I've always wanted to look like her when I was a girl, long golden hair, these _huge_ blue eyes...”

“And the Hilda?” Bilbo reminds her gently.

“Yes, right. She was Filip's – that was Lagabur's character – Aunt, and she was this adorable lady, who spent the whole movie giving sage advice to Filip, always very profound, always extremely over-the-top pathetic, you know the kind, about true love, and taking chances, and dreams coming true...”

“Right,” Bilbo chuckles.

“There was a sequel to the movie, in which she did the exact same thing,” Deidre chatters away, “and then the actress went on and did a number of other roles, all similar to her Hilda – a national treasure, really. Younger people don't really know where it comes from, but it's like a saying these days. 'Don't be a Hilda'. 'Don't Hilda me'. Ehh...”

“Go Hilda someplace else,” Thorin offers from the doorway, and Bilbo is ashamed of the tingle up his spine when the King and Deidre laugh gleefully.

“Why are we talking about old movies?” Thorin asks, moving to stand beside the maid and starting to make himself a coffee despite Deidre's attempts to shoo him away until she's finished washing the dishes.

“Oh, I've just been giving Bilbo some Hilda advice,” Deidre replies lightly, and maybe it's all in Bilbo's head at this point, but he sees Thorin tense up an almost imperceptible amount.

“I see,” the King says slowly, then, after a breathless moment, “coffee, Professor?”

“Ah, y-yes please,” Bilbo stammers, firmly deciding not to let the vague pain at being called 'Professor' again overwhelm him.

“I'll leave you two to it,” Deidre says innocently enough, but it still makes Bilbo sit up straighter, and Thorin glares at her a bit suspiciously.

“There's laundry that needs ironing,” she explains, then wags her finger at Thorin, “I don't think you'd enjoy going on Gabilaz in a crumpled shirt, now, would you?”

The King scowls, and Bilbo can't help the chuckle that escapes him – he quickly transforms it into an awkward cough, in the best possible comedy-relief manner. Deidre winks at him, which he pretends not to see, and then she skips off, whistling something Bilbo strongly suspects is a tune from the movie she'd just described to him, and he and Thorin are left all alone in the kitchen, with the kettle only just coming to a boil, and thus no opportunity to escape for the next couple of minutes.

“So,” Thorin declares after making their coffees (the fact that he somehow knows Bilbo's preferred cup – lots of milk, lots of sugar – shouldn't be as unnerving as it is), “do you actually have _any_ idea where I asked you to accompany us next weekend?”

Bilbo blinks at him in a bit of a daze, until he remembers, blushing, his eyes darting away when the King gazes at him, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not really,” he concedes feebly, wrapping his hands around his mug as a physical anchor, “I wasn't really... It's not that I wasn't listening, I just... I'm sorry.”

Thorin gazes at him still, and he looks, inexplicably, almost sad for a fleeting moment, but then he smiles shortly.

“Understandable,” he offers, and Bilbo frowns a little bit, because... is it?

“The Peace celebrations officially start next Sunday,” the King explains, staring into his coffee, “there will be a big event in the capital, of course, but Mister Ibindikhel thought it might be a good idea if I appeared here, in Ered Luin, instead. It's more, erm... personal, less grand marches and flags and national anthems, and my grandfather used to have a tradition of appearing there every end of harvest... There will be a short play to start it all off, and the fountain Fili talked about really is quite a lovely sight...”

His voice dies off, and he clears his throat and takes a long gulp of his coffee, and Bilbo realizes it brought a genuine smile to his face. Mirroring the King, he drowns it in his beverage.

“That sounds wonderful,” he says.

“It will be,” Thorin nods, “and apparently I will be required to make a speech – something about the public's sympathies being at their very best during a festival that sells alcohol. Ibindikhel's words, not mine,” he adds hastily, and Bilbo laughs.

“Of course. I imagine Dwalin's not too happy about that – the speech, I mean.”

“Oh, absolutely livid,” Thorin agrees, “too much open space, and both the King and the heir to the throne in the same place at the same time and all that. Being surrounded by security left and right is inevitable, I'm afraid.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo offers simply, drinking his coffee slowly, looking out of the window – no guards are in sight right now, but he knows there are at least five of them in the small patch of the backyard alone.

He wonders if feeling a bit caged is a normal response to knowing they are never quite alone, wherever they move. But then again, he thinks of the gun Dwalin gave him, resting in his nightstand, and the thought of carrying it with him out to public makes him slightly nauseous – better to be surrounded by professionals, who actually know how to aim.

“I do hope Kili will be healthy enough to go,” the King says quietly then, and Bilbo recognizes it for what it is – a rather valiant attempt at casual conversation, which he admires, because he has no such guts himself.

“Oh, I'm sure he will be,” he replies, forcing an easy confidence into his voice, “all he does is sleep and drink tea, and when the fever subsides, he'll get better in no time.”

Thorin scrutinizes him as if he can't quite believe his words, but then he sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He doesn't remember it, and Fili barely so, but their mother used to take them to Ered Luin when they were very little,” he says with surprising honesty.

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo mumbles before he can stop himself.

There is a photo the Princes and him found in a box at the very bottom of the chest upstairs when they first went exploring, colors a bit faded, almost as if it doesn't belong among the others – the King's sister with a dark-haired babe sleeping in her arms, and a grinning toddler holding onto her dress, and behind them, the mansion's garden in full bloom. They let it be, but Bilbo found it tucked away in Fili's copy of _Percy Jackson_ a day or two later, and left it there without a comment. He could ask why they stopped coming here, but he knows the answer too well – knows just how hard it is to return to a place that is brimming with memories, and pretend that they don't hurt you, no matter how wonderful they are.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters even though he doesn't really want to, and the fear he feels after the words leave his mouth is unknown to him yet – the fear of looking up, or even so much as moving an inch, because he might set off an avalanche. _Has_ probably set off an avalanche already.

Thorin is silent for the longest time, and Bilbo stares at his own hands folded in his lap, resisting the odd urge to twiddle his thumbs around each other like his mother would tell him to do when he was waiting for lunch to be served.

“You're not the one who should be apologizing,” the King says at last, slowly and colorlessly, and Bilbo scrunches his eyes shut for a moment – he half expects some sort of pathetic piano soundtrack to start playing in the background, that's how ridiculous and out of place the whole moment suddenly feels.

He thinks of all his lies, and half-truths, and all in all, everything he should feel guilty for the most, but the only image that keeps flickering back and forth in his mind is Thorin's face crumpling as he turned on his heel and left him standing in that hallway, and Bilbo thinks it will probably haunt him until the end of his days.

He opens his mouth with a sharp intake of breath, almost determined to say something, then shuts it again when the words just don't come. He looks on Thorin, hoping a bit desperately that that might prompt some idea, but he fails completely, faced with an entirely calm gaze.

“I walked away from you,” he peeps at last, strained and quiet, and it's as if the words aren't even his own; he hates them the second they slip past his lips.

“I'm the one who let you leave,” comes a soft reply, and Bilbo thinks, _oh, those are definitely not the right words._

He doesn't want to do this the obvious, horrendously pathetic way – he feels like he doesn't deserve that. Thorin should be angry, and bitter, and should never want to speak to him again, and it would make things so much easier. He'd make it clear Bilbo needs to keep his distance, because he does, because there's no other way in which this would work, and Bilbo would happily oblige. _This is not your fault,_ he wants to grind his teeth and hiss at Thorin, _it's not your fault that I decided to do all this – for the longest time, I thought it was. Or, I thought that if it were, it would be a good excuse. But, you know what, feelings are as good an excuse as any, but it's not your fault that I developed them. Please don't think you scared me off, or that I don't care, or that I'm the one who should be cut some slack, out of the two of us._

 _It just took that kiss for me to realize that all these mistakes I've made, I want to pay for them alone._ _Including this stupid, inconvenient, dangerous, debilitating heartache, thank you very much._

“I can't really blame you,” he chuckles a bit bitterly instead, and that, at last, seems to have taken Thorin a little by surprise.

“I...” he tries, and Bilbo is glad it doesn't go any further than that, honestly.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, more determined, less weak now, “I never wanted to... cause this much trouble. I think.”

He doesn't even have the time to make a mental note of how painfully ironic that phrase will eventually come to sound, because Thorin laughs, and the sound is so utterly unexpected in its tenderness and genuine amusement, that Bilbo forgets himself and looks at the King in surprise.

“I knew you were trouble the second you started arguing with me about the language of our contract,” Thorin says clearly, with a faint smile, “I don't think... I don't think I would have had it any other way. If you really want to place blame, this is as much my fault as it is yours. I never asked for any of this, and I believe neither did you, and yet here we are.”

Bilbo merely gapes at him with what must be a rather ridiculous baffled grimace, and he's completely at a loss for words.

“Um,” he manages eventually, and Thorin never stops smiling, if a bit somberly, and Bilbo's not quite sure how they got here, but he'll take it, he'll take it all.

“I'd hate for you to think that you, uh... did something profoundly wrong.”

Bilbo's eyes widen in genuine shock, but all that he's capable of is a rather disbelieving: “Are you telling me that that was precisely according to protocol?”

Thorin laughs, _again,_ and Bilbo does so too, but in his case, it's a bit brittle – navigating this conversation is taking its toll on him already.

“When have you ever bothered with protocol?” the King offers incredibly lightly, and even though a part of Bilbo still wants to run out of the room, confused and a bit frightened, he retorts swiftly: “When have you ever not?”

Even _more_ laughter follows, and they are left gazing at each other, Bilbo feeling a great deal bewildered, cheeks hot, but unable to defeat his grin. Surely this is not how this should go – Thorin shouldn't by any means be this relaxed, shouldn't treat this so lightly, what with the weight of the whole country on his shoulders...

 _Maybe you should stop trying to guess how other people_ should _think. Maybe he's like this precisely because he's carrying the weight of the whole country on his shoulders._

_No, wait, that's still bad for you – the one thing you can't give him is easy comfort._

Beginning to get a bit panicky again, Bilbo is almost grateful when Beorn stomps into the kitchen without much ado, Deidre following, the pair of them bickering about... mushrooms?, if Bilbo understands the quick Khuzdul correctly, and the moment is broken.

 

But somehow, so is some of the tension between Bilbo and the King. He knows not how, and he's sure as hell not going to linger on the issue, but in the following days, they become increasingly more capable of functioning normally in each other's presence. The plan is to stay in the summer house until after the Sunday that marks the beginning of the Peace celebrations, and return to the Palace sometime in the following week, which will give the Princes enough time to prepare to go back to school and such, and Thorin to get ready for his final appearance in the capital, which will mark the end of the whole week-long event. But for now, all of them find themselves with a couple more days to spend in this mansion, and somehow, even the King has surprisingly little work on his hands. The media seems to be doing it for him, and perhaps the most surprising turn of events is the story that airs on Wednesday, before Thorin returns from his daily travels.

“- _and Smaug Bundushar has announced that though it is unlikely to exactly boost his image, or the image of the party he is supporting in the upcoming elections, he will do what he can to determine the truth of these accusations. The billionaire believes that if one possesses the means to aid justice, one should use those to their very best knowledge-_ ”

“What's going on?” Bilbo mumbles to Balin, having trailed into the drawing room after hearing English instead of the usual Khuzdul when it was time for the evening news.

Deidre and Beorn are in the room as well, and even a number of the people Bilbo recognizes as Bard's colleagues, and all in all, the tension in the air is very palpable.

“Bundushar has just announced that some members of Karkâl's party _might have_ been doing business with some unsavory characters, who _might be_ behind the attack,” Balin explains derisively.

“What?” Bilbo gasps, “but he was... I mean, why on earth would he...? I don't understand.”

“Literally nobody does,” Balin nods as the TV shows images of both Bundushar and Karkâl, usually side by side and chatting very intensely, probably about their plans to overthrow the monarchy, or something, “this country hasn't had a terrorist cell... well, ever since the revolution, but you know how the media enjoy fanatics. The idea that some of those ideals have been brewing under the surface all that time, is... well, bad news for us _and_ Karkâl's party, but obviously excellent news for the press.”

 _The media enjoy fanatics –_ it pains Bilbo to think how close they are to a couple of _real_ ones without even realizing it. It occurs to him that they're not trying to sabotage themselves for no reason – exactly the opposite, in fact. No, he's not a fan of politics, but he recognizes a good martyr complex when he sees one. Both Bundushar and Karkâl will spend the next days atoning for their foolish blindness, all but swearing allegiance to the Crown medieval-style, and the public will buy it, feast on it, believe it.

Yet again, Bilbo feels very, very tiny, compared to everything that's going on around him. Neither Gandalf nor Bard seem to feel the need to update him, or tell him anything at all in fact, and so he is left alone, wondering how all these pieces of a puzzle fit together, including the alleged figure of Thorin's father, lying somewhere in a hospital bed, unconscious and frail, and yet somehow possessing enough power to make Bundushar believe he has the upper hand...

Bilbo begins to get very unnerved when everything keeps progressing very smoothly – it seems that some of the higher-ups in Karkâl's party will be arrested soon, and even the leader himself agrees to be subject to an interrogation, and the press has a lot to write about, the news anchors a lot to talk about. And what's more, the King himself is satisfied with this turn of events, because it means things are moving ahead – to what end, though, Bilbo doesn't dare predict.

It would be so much easier to let his worries gnaw at his nerves if it weren't for Thorin himself – his mere presence doesn't set Bilbo on edge the way it used to, anymore. Exactly the opposite, in fact. He's not sure what changed, but he finds it easier and easier to face the King, and Thorin himself seems to be spending more time at the mansion – or maybe it's just the fact that Bilbo doesn't spend all of _his_ time trying to avoid him.

They share breakfasts with the Princes, and dinners whenever Thorin manages to return in time, and when one evening, the King wanders into the living room where Bilbo has taken to quiet reading, staying even after he's finished talking about something no doubt very important with Balin, Bilbo doesn't even question it. They develop a habit truly worthy of the silly teenagers they apparently are, stealing glances at each other when they think the other one is not looking, and hiding behind their book or a newspaper or whatever when their looks accidentally collide.

There's Thorin sitting on Kili's bed, letting him, oddly enough, draw on his hand with a sharpie, and there's Thorin arranging various forms of still life with Fili in the kitchen to take photos of, while Deidre complains about them stealing her bowls and vegetables, and there's Thorin lounging in the armchair in the living room, immersed in this or that article on his tablet, while Muzmith the kitten sleeps and purrs on the armrest, nuzzled into his neck, and... Well, there's Thorin, stealing Bilbo's breath and concentration away, dismantling his worries so perfectly he's always left wondering what he's been so nervous about, and it's all so very unfair. Yes.

Then there's the Friday the King has decided to take the afternoon off, because he needs to write the speech for Sunday, and though he's not entirely sure where it came from, Bilbo makes a silly little remark at lunch about how he can only hope his style has improved since he wrote that blasted contract that started all this, and Fili giggles, his now completely healed and overly excited brother joining him, and Deidre might choke on her coffee, but Bilbo only has eyes for Thorin, who... takes it all in stride very gracefully, smirking and declaring: “Well, I'd certainly appreciate your input – you do excel at witty catchphrases.”

And there's nothing else to do than blush furiously and fumble over words, and Bilbo thinks, _oh, it shouldn't be this easy. Certainly shouldn't be this_ fun. _Everything's about to come tumbling down under your feet, and here you are, flirting with a King and joking about language proficiencies._

He spends the following hours trying his damnedest to keep Kili from running around the house lest his temperature elevates again, and doesn't even think twice about what he'd said (well, that's not true, the embarrassment is lingering and powerful, but he tries very hard) until dinner, when Thorin waits for the boys to finish and run off into what they now call 'the TV room' to watch this or that movie, and for Deidre to disappear as well, and asks very earnestly: “Could I interest you in hearing the first draft?”

Bilbo's quite glad that he's sitting down, and that he's not drinking anything at that moment, because he would risk looking like a complete idiot otherwise, what with the genuine shock he feels.

“I, erm,” he manages lamely, “yes, of course, I would... I would love to. B-but you do realize my Khuzdul isn't exactly stellar yet, and...”

“Oh, it's in English, for now,” the King replies lightly, “somehow, I find writing in it easier these days, I don't know why or how.”

“A common phenomenon,” Bilbo nods, “the structures of a learned language are often more easily adopted and freely utilized than those of our native one, it has to do with the brain putting more effort into concentrating on different parts of... _anyway,_ ” he clears his throat, cheeks flushing, when he sees that the King regards his little litany with a small smile, “I'd love to hear it, of course.”

“Excellent, thank you. Meet me in the living room?”

“Ah... yes. Alright.”

Bilbo hears the speech. Laughs and chuckles whenever it's appropriate, and often when it's not. Even makes a couple of notes and remarks, which Thorin accepts without a doubt. Struggles, struggles so hard not to shove the happily purring Muzmith off his lap, get up from his armchair, grab the King's face and kiss him where he stands.It's a horrible feeling. It's a glorious speech. Bilbo can imagine hearing it again, and again, and again, and he can imagine the faces of the people of Ered Luin when they'll hear it, and he looks at Thorin adjusting his glasses and typing notes into the document, and wonders, marvels at the fact that not everyone in this country is as in love with him as Bilbo himself. His chest physically hurts.

Deidre interrupts their little meeting by reminding them that it is time for the boys' bedtime story, and Thorin follows Bilbo to the Princes' room without much ado, and that's when it occurs to Bilbo – if he wants this to come to any sort of dignified end, he will have to make sure that the King and his nephews are completely at ease with each other. It will make things easier when Bilbo is gone.

“Oh, drat,” he announces, “I forgot my glasses downstairs.”

“No-o,” Kili whines, flopping on the bed, while Fili just pfft's: “Well, go get them!”

“Hmm, I don't feel like it. Your Majesty, how about you take over for today?”

Thorin only glances at him very shortly, ducking his head and smiling, and Bilbo composes himself before he starts grinning like an idiot.

“Well,” Thorin declares, “I'd love to, of course. If you two don't mind.”

“Read, read!” Kili waves his hand impatiently, and Fili adds: “you might be a little better at the voices than Bilbo, anyway.”

“Well, excuse me!” Bilbo puffs up, “I think my voices are very good!”

“The lady ones are,” Fili remarks dryly, while Kili giggles through his hands and Thorin laughs outright.

“I do believe lady voices are a worthy skill,” he says, amused, and Bilbo sighs, rolling his eyes and slumping down by Fili's bed, muttering: “I'll be sure to put it in my resume.”

“Alright then,” Thorin grins, “what are we reading?”

“Here,” Fili hands him Bilbo's somewhat ruined copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_.

“Oh, excellent,” the King appraises it, “I read that when I was about your age, Fili.”

He settles in the foot of Kili's bed, and from the moment he puts on his silver-grey spectacles, Bilbo knows he will have a hard time keeping his heart still during the whole endeavor. He tries to keep his enchanted staring to a minimum, but in the end, he tells himself, he'll only be mirroring the boys, anyway. Thorin reads calmly, his voice much lower than Bilbo's, and Kili all but crawls into his lap, peeking into the book as his Uncle trails the lines of the text for him, and Fili lies on his stomach, his chin in his hands, head next to Bilbo's, and both are quiet as mice.

Bilbo thinks of when he first got to know these three, feeling painfully, horribly nostalgic, and knows that neither of them would have ever thought any of this possible. The fact that he helped create this... this peace between them, is only a small comfort, because somehow, even though he never asked for it, even though he's always wanted everything but, he also possesses the power to disrupt that peace again.

Kili ends up curled up like a cat next to Thorin, asleep within minutes, and even Fili is dozing off when the King finishes. He and Bilbo bid the boys a very quiet goodnight, and tiptoe out of the room, and there's that stupid wide window that will now always summon far too many memories, as far as Bilbo is concerned, and he's just glad neither of them falters, and they walk right past it and downstairs.

This could be almost good, if it weren't for all the... well, horrors inbound. Bilbo knows that at some point during the last week, they'd made a sort of silent agreement, to try and find their way around each other again, and it pains him that it's been so successful. He tries not to think about could-have-beens. Or, well, will-have-beens-if. He tries not to think about the future, or the version of it he'd most enjoy, or the version of it that's the most probable. He tries not to think at all. He excuses himself early that night, even though all he wants to do is sit in the living room with Thorin and the others and listen to their conversations about this or that, nursing his cup of tea and wondering if he'll ever be allowed to close the distance of those couple of inches between him and the King as they lounge in the sofa...

Right, no, yes, sleep is definitely the safer option.

 

Saturday passes in a flurry of being educated by Dwalin about safety measures, movement in big crowds and such, and more shooting practice, as the Head of Security wants to make sure Bilbo doesn't underestimate the possible dangers. And on early Sunday afternoon, the Princes and him are loaded into a car and driven down to Ered Luin, without the King, who is still somewhere on the road, and will appear to make his initiating speech, not earlier. On their way to the small city – they will be delivered to the house of Dain Khirikhbuzun, where they'll spend their time until it all starts – Bilbo gazes out of the window at the dashes of passing trees, the leaves only just beginning to take on rich reds and yellows, and thinks on how surreal it feels, getting out of the mansion after so long. His life in the capital, his tiny apartment on the top floor of the Palace, his friends there, Fridda... It all seems so distant. Almost like it never happened. Once again, he's a bit mad at himself for letting all his troubles overshadow that, and upon bumping into Gandalf at the Prime Minister's house, he just groans in irritation, makes sure the Princes are safe, running off with Dain's children, the security guards following, and decides to at least try and hear what Gandalf has to say to him.

“Everything is under control,” the man declares rather unconvincingly, “today should happen without any... unexpected interruptions. I wouldn't want you to worry.”

Bilbo glares at him without humor until the taller man's smirk disappears, and he sighs.

“I'm sorry we've been keeping you in the dark.”

“Oh, you are, are you.”

“Yes. You have nothing to fear, Bilbo, and I thought it best for you to know as little as possible.”

“I already know plenty more than I'd fancy, thank you very much.”

“There is work to be done, after you return to the Palace and before the Peace celebrations are over, but I'll tell you more about that later-”

“Oh, _save it._ ”

Bilbo realizes just how thin the line is between maintaining a careful, blissful ignorance, and letting the reality of the whole matter overwhelm him.

“I don't want to _work for you,_ ” he all but hisses, “I don't want to be fed teeny tiny pieces of information without a proper explanation, and expected to be fine with that. I don't want any of this, dammit.”

“What _do_ you want, then?” Gandalf asks simply.

Bilbo stares at him, knowing the answer but reluctant to give it, until he is summoned to get ready, meeting the Prime Minister and his wife in the hall, actually glad that Gandalf has, at some point, disappeared off to... god knows where.

“Good to see you again,” Dain greets him instead, a much more welcome presence, and Bilbo devotes himself to exchanging pleasantries with him and his wife, his blood pressure slowly calming down. If they are tense, they don't let it show, especially not around the children, and Bilbo feels the fragility of the whole situation – this is a celebration of _peace_ after all, and yet here they are, surrounded by double the security, all feeling vaguely in danger, he suspects.

But Ered Luin all but beams in the rich glow of the afternoon sun – it's a picturesque city, much like Gundabad, the narrow alleys with overflowing with people, and Bilbo sees that there are garlands of bright flags fluttering in between the buildings, and stands selling, among many other things, big puffs of colorful cotton candy, and there are chains of lights and lanterns in the trees, some lit, some waiting for dark to fall, and all in all, it's almost ridiculously joyful.

The main square where all the important stuff will take part is in front of a beautiful, tall church, shining like a beacon. A stage has been erected under the broad branches of two chestnut trees, and the crowd is amassing by it, awaiting the beginning of the whole shebang. After being drilled by Dwalin, Bilbo knows that there are security guards everywhere, in the windows of the surrounding buildings, in the church, among the people carrying pastries and cameras and small children... He really wishes he'd been spared that knowledge. The overall gleeful and hopeful mood would be so much easier to believe.

For now, he's happy that Dwalin's men take charge, ushering the Princes and him and Dain's family inside the church. Bilbo admires the splendor, the breathtakingly magnificent altar on the far side of the nave, the gilded statues of saints, the well-preserved frescoes on the high arched ceilings, the way the murmur of their voices rises and catches there, along with the tapping of their footsteps... He's never been particularly religious, but he has much appreciation for buildings such as this, serving its purpose fully – makes one feel very small, and yet, in tune with something much bigger than himself.

He listens to the last-minute explanations of what will follow paying only so much attention – when the King arrives, everyone will take the stage, and there will be lots of waving and smiling and posing for photos, all of which Bilbo will stay out of, of course. He has a seat reserved somewhere in the first row of the makeshift auditorium separated from the main mass of the crowd, where the King's and Prime Minister's families will also sit when the speech is done, to watch the play that will follow.

Thorin appears then – well, his guards first, through a side entrance, spreading out across the nave as if every column and wooden bench could be hiding an assassin, only then followed by the King himself, with Dwalin by his side, and Bilbo is rather breathless rather quickly. Thorin is wearing a uniform resembling the one he had at the Gala, though much less formal, the decorations and golden braids not quite as pompous, but still... saying that the dark, rich royal blue is a good look on him would be a vast understatement.

They spare a smile at each other as the King chats with Dain, and Bilbo makes sure the boys have not ruined their hair _or_ their shirts, and then Dwalin announces ten minutes until the start of the speech, and assigns two guards to escort Bilbo out of the church and to his seat.

“Good luck, Your Majesty,” Bilbo manages before he's steered away by the tall men in dark suits, “boys, behave.”

Thorin nods to him, smile still in place, and Fili and Kili laugh and wave him off, and then Bilbo's off, and he thinks that if he can manage to enjoy this one evening, live through Thorin giving his speech with his uniform and his, his hair, and his neatly trimmed beard, then he'll be ready to face anything. Sort of.

His stomach lurches unpleasantly when he sees that he's seated next to Bard, but he manages a crooked smile, and the journalist seems to have no interest in laying anymore potentially damning secrets on his shoulders, and so they both accept the small royal flag from the lady handing them out, and spend the next couple of minutes complimenting the weather, and the lighting, and the crowds and whatnot.

The first notes of the orchestra announcing the beginning take them both by surprise, and it takes a while to discern where the music is coming from – the musicians are cleverly concealed in the church's arcade, and this is what Bilbo loves about Erebor, the live music, and the passion for theater, and yes, well, the royal family.

The applause that swells when the King makes his entrance, his nephews by his side and the Prime Minister and his family in the background, is deafening, and they all look so... so pristine, so professional, a perfect picture of stability, mirroring all the ideals the roaring crowds have instilled into them over the years... Bilbo rises from his seat along with everyone else when the national anthem starts playing, and there is no one singer leading on – the people manage entirely on their own, and Bilbo's only ashamed he doesn't know all the words and must resort to only humming the melody here and there.

But Thorin's gaze catches his own early on, and nothing else really matters afterward. Bilbo only wonders if anyone makes the link, the King as still as a statue, staring at the tiny man in the front row fumbling over words until he stops singing altogether, and what they must think of it. He sinks back into his seat feeling a bit lightheaded, and when the speech starts, he begins thinking about fear again.

It's never been his nature to avoid head-on confrontations – or, it might have been, way back when. There was a time in his life when he thought defending himself ferociously was the way to go. Defending his _ideals._ He fought for himself because his mother taught him that the world was prone to complying, if only one knew where to apply the right amount of pressure. He fought for his students back at Bree, because he believed in them, believed in their future and the things they'd accomplish, and hated to see all of that being smothered. He fought and he fought, sometimes entirely too brash for his own good, sometimes entirely too quiet to achieve any results beyond a moral high ground, but still... fighting was something he was good at. _Is_ good at – he's spent the entirety of his time in Erebor all but battling with Thorin, for crying out loud!

He watches the King speak, and listens to the crowd react, and understands some words, misses others, and feels the urge to just close his eyes and soak it all up. _The most frightening notion of all is_ , he thinks as Thorin finishes to yet another thunderous round of applause, and moves with the Princes and the others to take his seat, _that it takes you precisely one look at him to realize just how much you'd be willing to risk for him. Have risked for him already. You physically can't walk away, and yet if you stay, you know exactly how all of this will end. You're hoping for a miracle you don't deserve._

The following play passes in a hurry, Bilbo quickly losing concentration, and he's very grateful he's not required to do much afterward. The Princes are under the supervision of Dwalin's men, moving wherever the King moves, and Bilbo only trails behind, making sure not to get lost in the crowd... The famed fountain Fili had talked about so much is on the far side of the square, where the pavements divide into thin paths, delving into a park, and the people move like a mass of water, flowing over there to get a better point of view. And honestly Bilbo is just wondering how Dwalin isn't absolutely horrified of all the security risks, escorting the royal family over there on foot, surrounded by all those other important people, while Bilbo walks side by side with Bard, all but elbowing their way through the crowd. He knows he's being watched, Dwalin had assured him of that, but it's more of a worry than a comfort, as is the cold weight of the gun in the strange holster Dwalin made him wear. Bilbo is absolutely determined not to use it, though, and hoping desperately that he won't have to.

In the end, it's his distracted mind, thinking about guns and security measures and bulletproof vests, that prevents him from noticing the man standing by his side before it's a bit too late. He finds a good spot near enough to the Princes and with a good view of the fountain coming to life, and when someone next to him mumbles: “A lovely evening we're having, am I right?”, his first reaction is to agree with a smile. It freezes the second he turns to look who said that, and recognizes the face of one Mister Zundush, Smaug Bundushar's personal assistant, and... what? Hired assassin? Surely not?

Bilbo's mind races as the man shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers leisurely and smiles at him.

“Hello again,” he says.

“H-hello,” Bilbo breathes out, strained.

“Don't be so nervous,” Zundush grins, “I'm only here to deliver a message – oh, but look, it's starting!”

He's pointing to the fountain, but Bilbo will be damned if he tears his eyes away from him for a second. It's all good, he tells himself. Dwalin's standing right there, his bald head towering over everyone else's, and there are other guards nearby, surely Bilbo is in no danger...

“What do you want?” he hisses, suddenly very aware of the gun jabbing him into his ribs, and hearing Dwalin's ' _don't ever pull it in a crowd'_ far too clearly, “what message?”

“Mister Kent was funny,” Zundush says rather vaguely, that grin still plastered over his face, and he looks innocent enough, with his sweaty forehead, and his shirt that's far too small, and his round, chubby cheeks, but Bilbo figures that if there's ever been a time not to underestimate someone based on their looks, it would be now.

“We don't particularly like Mister Baggins – _oh, look at that!_ ”

Bilbo shudders at the cold calm of the first part of the sentence compared with the joyful exclamation at the blazing red and golden light erupting as the fountain show reaches its peak, and he wonders if he'd be trampled outright were he to fall to his knees and try to disappear between the legs of the bystanders – did he see this in a movie? He feels like he did.

He sees then that Fili and Kili search for him in the crowd, and when they find him, they wave and motion him to come over, and Bilbo realizes that Mister Zundush is invisible to them from this angle – which is a blessing, really, but his stomach lurches when he thinks of the immediate danger he's putting them in.

“If you'll excuse me, I need to get going now-” he tries desperately, but as he moves to walk away, Zundush's hand on his elbow stops him, and almost stops his heart as well.

“As I said,” the man speaks more intently now, the pleasant smile on his face nothing more than a mask, “we don't particularly like Mister Baggins. He's much less fun, and much more trouble. We'd like him out of the picture.”

Bilbo glares at him, a foul taste settling in his mouth, his heart beating frantically, and he's beginning to feel like he's come to be a part of one of those poor-quality gangster action movies. He just hopes he's not the guy who dies in this or that gruesome way within the first five minutes of it.

“Who's 'we'?” he asks, sounding much more spiteful than is probably safe.

Zundush only responds with tilting his head and tsk-tsking, a clear gesture of _oh, please._

“Walk with me,” he says.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come now, it's a beautiful evening. I'm not asking much.”

“I'm, I'm armed.”

Zundush laughs, and it's not a laugh one would expect from someone so round and jovial-looking – it's dry, and quiet, and ominous, and Bilbo cringes.

“I'm sure,” the man all but hisses, and is about to say some more, but the light show ends then, and applause follows, and Bilbo realizes he's missed the entirety of it, and the boys are so close, and yet here he is, staring down this man, and... he struggles with the fear and disgust, and a strange sort of heavy regret, trying his damnedest not to let his face crumple under the weight of it all.

“What do you want from me?” he squeaks, weak and undignified.

“To choose,” Zundush offers, and peripherally, Bilbo notices that the crowd moves again, the King and the Princes along with it, and he knows that no attention will be paid to him, except maybe by the boys, who will only try to search for him for so long until they're ushered ahead... He grits his teeth.

“Choose what?” he growls, and they are forced to step closer together as the people around them shuffle, and he feels repulsed by the man, utterly and completely.

“I'm glad you asked,” Zundush offers a fake grin, “it's quite simple. Since you're so loyal to the Crown, I'm sure you'd hate it if they learned about your little alter ego. We will keep your secret, if you keep ours.”

Bilbo can't help the scoff that escapes him, and for a second there, he's almost sure he's dead meat, the way Zundush's eyes narrow at that.

“What, that's it?” he says, “really? Keeping each other's secrets?”

“Well, no, not really,” Zundush smirks, “of course not. Decide to tell anyone, you will be dealt with. Do anything but your job as the cute little Princes' nanny, you will be dealt with. Let yourself believe for one second that you can play this game, at any level, and you will be dealt with. Are we understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Bilbo gasps, because that word doesn't come from his mouth – it's Gandalf, materializing by his side out of thin air, placing one heavy hand on his shoulder, and Bilbo's knees almost give way. Zundush's eyes widen, and Bilbo expects him to ask questions, or maybe reach for a gun, but instead the man turns on his heel and does an impressive job of disappearing into the crowd lightning-quick.

“G-Gandalf.”

One hand on his shoulder becomes two, and Gandalf looks him over.

“Are you alright? Who was that?” he demands sharply, and before Bilbo can answer, two men dash past them, exchanging a curt nod with Gandalf.

“Bilbo.”

“Y-yes.”

“ _Who was that man?_ ”

For once, the look on Gandalf's face is completely no-nonsense, and he's still squeezing both Bilbo's shoulders very intently.

“He's, um... I believe he's, he's Bundushar's personal assistant? I think? I met him at that rally. His name is Zundush... probably.”

“Good,” Gandalf sighs, “good.”

“Good? How is any of this _good?_ ”

“Calm down, Bilbo. Listen to me-”

“I don't think so! He just... he threatened me! He said I would be _dealt with!_ ”

“ _Bilbo,_ ” Gandalf hisses, and Bilbo sees that his last desperate outburst turned some heads in the crowd.

He ducks his head, and sees that his hands are trembling.

“Sorry,” he breathes out.

“You're going to be fine – look at me,” Gandalf orders, and Bilbo obliges reluctantly, only to be met with a smile he's long since learned not to trust.

“You're going to be fine,” Gandalf repeats, “I promise you. My men will escort you to the church, you'll meet with the King and the Princes there, you'll say nothing to nobody, understood? You got lost in the crowd. You forgot yourself. Not that hard to imagine, is it?”

Bilbo frowns and opens his mouth, but he's all dried out.

“Dwalin's men,” he sighs at last, “Dwalin's men should have been watching me.”

“Yes, good of you to remember. I replaced them with mine.”

“Wh-why?”

“To keep an eye on you, of course. Personally.”

“That's touching,” Bilbo scoffs, and Gandalf chuckles, and Bilbo searches for anything, any hint in his eyes, anything that would help him understand, or at least calm him down.

Without him noticing, two more men appear at his side, not dressed like Dwalin's guards, but wearing more or less casual clothes, and Gandalf pats his shoulder one last time before letting go, and then he's gone as fast as he came.

“This way, sir,” one of the men says quietly, with an American accent, and Bilbo looks at him, a bit bewildered, and is met with a stern face and a pair of black sunglasses, and decides not to argue.

He's not quite sure how his legs carry him over the expanse of the square back to the church. The lanterns and street lamps all meld into a blur of colors, the cacophony of people's voices, and mopeds driving by, and some faint music playing far off, almost overloading his senses, and he barely registers that he's being carefully steered by his guards in the right direction.

But somehow, he's alone again when he enters the vast, cold darkness of the church, the sounds dulled by its stone walls, the cool air a blessing. He sees that Dwalin is conversing with Dain by the far wall, and he raises his hand to him weakly before sliding onto the nearest bench (not the ones meant for praying, of course – even in his haze he thinks that would be the most inappropriately ridiculous thing to do in his current state) and burying his head in his hands. His temples are throbbing and his throat is dry, and he realizes he hasn't eaten or drunk anything in a while. He groans weakly, and wonders if his feet will carry him when he stands up. This is all too much. He doesn't even want to open his eyes. Things are happening too quickly – his life was just threatened, quite clearly, and he doesn't even have the capacity for fear, not really. He stares at the stone floor through his fingers, numb and dull, breathing deeply, eyes open wide, and flinches when a door somewhere in the building opens and closes, the sound echoing loudly.

“Bilbo, where have you been?”

The Princes hurry to him, Kili carrying a huge cloud of blue cotton candy and Fili waving his camera.

“We've been looking all over for you!” the older boy announces, “I took all these photos, I need to show you!”

“Sorry, I... I got lost in the crowd,” Bilbo mutters, his eyes widening a bit when he sees Thorin approaching, a wide smile on his face.

He stands up, but regrets it immediately – his head spins, and he has to support himself with his palm flat against the stone of the nearest pillar. Has one near-death encounter really done him in so much? ...Well.

“Professor, we thought we had lost you,” Thorin grins, and Bilbo sees that he is positively beaming – yes, for his part, it's been a successful day, of course. Ha.

“No, I'm... I'm right here.”

His hands are sweating. He feels uncomfortably like throwing up, which, well, hasn't happened in a while, and Kili is offering him his cotton candy, and Thorin's still wearing his bloody gorgeous uniform, and...

“Hmm?” he manages, the last couple of words spoken escaping him completely.

“I said, I hope you enjoyed the evening – are you quite alright?”

And that's Thorin's hand on Bilbo's arm, and there's been far too many hands on his arm today. He's not thinking straight. He's not... oh, wow, apparently he's not even standing straight.

“Bilbo?” comes Kili's strained, worried peep, and Bilbo looks from his worried face, to Fili's worried face, to Thorin's worried face, and realizes he's gripping the King's forearm feebly, and, alright, this has _certainly_ not happened in a while.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he blabbers, “I think it's the pressure or something...”

And the last thought that flashes through his mind before he faints like a damsel in distress, is _'well... that's certainly one way to deal with things. Hopefully you'll land anywhere but Thorin's arms'._

* * *

 _  
_ **Dictionary:**

_Arskanjinjel_ \- Fire dancers

_Kulhu darûn?_ \- What time is it?

_Mizukhel_ \- Nice

_Rem Bukhubâlâf_ \- Three Brave Years

_Yâkùlib Mahal_ \- Mahal’s grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, alright, I know I was all excited about the fluffiness of this chapter over on Tumblr, but the truth is, the slow burn really sets my teeth on edge :'D I SWEAR I wanted the bagginshield to progress more than it actually did, I... oh well. I hope you guys liked it nevertheless :') Your support has really grown lately, and I'm so so grateful and it keeps me going <3 And I promise we're getting there... wherever 'there' is.


	15. Chapter 15

Oh, the bittersweet taste of lingering embarrassment. Bilbo's never been the one for binge drinking, or partying overmuch for that matter – even during his finest university days, he would usually be the designated driver, or the one to clean up after everyone in the morning, or both. And that was all good, because he's always been a bit of a lightweight, and it didn't take much for him to make a complete tit out of himself. He's always thought that avoiding too much alcohol would spare him the worst awkwardness life could offer. Well, he was terribly wrong, that much is now obvious.

Fainting has never been his default response to stress, either, but he figures if his stay in Erebor has taught him anything, it's that there's always room for the unexpected. And, well, more stress. He doesn't remember much of the ride back to the mansion – he had woken up at some point or another to vague flickers of light and the soft hum of the car speeding down some indiscernible part of a driveway, his temples throbbing, and the first thing he registered was the lack of the cold weight of his gun under his left arm, and then the Princes, eying him curiously.

All in all, he could probably have ended up much worse than with his cheek smushed against the cold glass of the car's window, but at that moment, there had been next to no solace in that idea.

“Are you okay?” Fili had asked him, and he'd harrumphed and straightened up, trying to come up with some sort of plausible explanation for his little accident, and also, checking himself for any bruises.

Had he really fainted in a church?

“You fell right on _Indâd!_ ” Kili had giggled, and Fili added, “right in his arms!”, and Bilbo's face must have been the grimace of perfect horror, because they both giggled, and he groaned and hid his face in his hands, and the embarrassment hadn't stopped since.

Come to think of it, he doesn't remember much of the previous night at all – well, he remembers the event downtown, it's not like he's ever forgetting _that,_ but he doesn't know how he got the boys all sorted after they returned home, or how he got into his bed himself, for that matter. He wakes up to sunlight dimmed by the fluttering curtains draped close, and he spends what might be ten minutes or an hour just lying still, staring at his phone and wristwatch on the nightstand, trying to summon enough energy to reach for either and check the time. He feels pleasantly drowsy, but that passes the second he sits up, and his whole world sways and spins. He discovers that his throat is suddenly very dry, the thirst almost scorching, and when he gets up, his feet are unsteady at best. His stomach doesn't really agree with the whole situation either, twisting in knots, and all in all, he feels very frail. He realizes he's still wearing his shirt from last night –perfectly destroyed now, of course – and beyond that and his boxers, nothing else. Deciding not to be unnerved about that, at least for the time being, he wobbles out of the room and to the bathroom, thinking of more and more things he should have done along the way. What time is it? Where are his glasses? And his dignity, for that matter?

A splash of cold water in his face helps with the dizziness, but not with the harrowed look overall. He's unacceptably pale, and unacceptably unshaven, but he can't do anything about the former, and certainly doesn't have the will to do anything about the latter. He drinks the tap water in long, sloppy gulps from his cupped hands, feeling twelve again, until its cold spreads to his whole body, and he decides that if he's to face today at all, it certainly won't be in his underwear and a crumpled shirt.

Changing is more of an ordeal than it should be, and he's infinitely colder than he should be, too, but at long last, he's somewhat ready to go out there and see what's what – for the longest time, he thinks his wristwatch must have stopped with the fall last night, because it shows him that it's well past noon. He doesn't know what's worse – the idea that he had slept in, or that they'd _let him_ sleep in.

Wearing his thickest pair of socks and with his arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding his favorite soft cardigan like a security blanket, he slinks downstairs, the quiet of the house a bit unnerving. He hopes with all he's got that the first person he'll run into won't be the King.

The radio in the kitchen plays an upbeat tune, but there's no one there, and Bilbo decides to see it as a blessing, moving around slowly and somewhat carefully, in a sort of daze, as he puts the kettle on, opting for tea rather than coffee, taking the advice of his stomach to heart. He really is surprisingly cold, but all that is explained when he goes to stand by the window – the sky outside is dark grey, the grass and the tiles of the pathways glistening with water, a clear sign that it had been raining. Bilbo wonders where the Princes are – he only hopes they're not running about out there soaking their sneakers and the hems of their trousers, so soon after Kili's healed, too...

“Well well well, look who rises from the dead!”

That's Deidre, steering into the kitchen, setting an armful of laundry on the nearest chair just as the kettle begins boiling.

“Hello,” Bilbo manages a very weak smile, and she reacts swiftly, pouring the water into his cuppa before he can as much as move over there.

“Sit,” she orders him, “you look horrid.”

“Thanks,” he sighs, slumping into a chair.

The table is suddenly very inviting, and he rests his arms on it, burying his head in the crook of his elbow, the wood pleasantly cool against his cheek.

“How are you feeling?” Deidre asks softly.

“Like butter scraped over too much bread,” he mutters absentmindedly, and when she snorts, he adds, his voice muffled as his lips move against his arm, “that's what my Dad used to say. No idea where that came from, but it's apt, don't you think?”

“I'll say,” she chuckles, “did your Dad have a habit of fainting as well, then?”

“Not really,” Bilbo groans, resting his forehead flat against the table, then finally straightening up, “no idea where that came from, either.”

“The boys tell me you went out like a light.”

“That's probably true. I don't remember all that much. ...Where are they, then? The boys?”

“Oh, out,” Deidre offers, scurrying about the kitchen, opening the cabinets and taking out various dishes overly carefully, probably thinking any louder noises would cause Bilbo a headache, “His Majesty arranged for them to spend the day with the Prime Minister's family. Something about you getting some rest.”

The grin is evident on her face during that last sentence, and Bilbo groans, rubbing his forehead.

“That's... nice,” he sighs, “are they safe?”

“Oh, half of Dwalin's men went with them,” Deidre waves her hand, “the other half's with Thorin, you know the deal. But forget about all that, let me make you something to eat before you evaporate completely.”

“Oh, I, no...”

“You need to eat,” Deidre declares, “scrambled eggs sound good?”

“Mmm,” Bilbo agrees feebly, not quite sure if his stomach will handle that, but fully prepared to try, and he thinks... well.

He can't exactly stop worrying, can he? Even though it seems like he will have a couple of hours to himself. For a fleeting, horrible moment, he remembers the face of Mister Zundush as if it were right there in front of him, and he whines, taking a generous gulp of his tea, even though it's barely below scalding hot. He entertains a crazy scenario of Smaug's men coming to get him here now that most of the security guards are away with either the King or the Princes, and only ever manages to dismiss it when the kitchen starts filling with the smell of Deidre's cooking.

He does feel a lot better after having eaten, and declaring he'll be in his room and to call for him if he's needed, he trails back there, and dials Gandalf's number without really thinking about it, or expecting him to pick up, for that matter.

“Bilbo!” the man exclaims happily, though, as if they're nothing more than cheerful acquaintances who haven't heard from each other in a while, “how are you?”

“Well, my life was threatened yesterday, and I went and fainted in a church, what can I tell you.”

The other side of the line is quiet for a while.

“You fainted?” Gandalf repeats slowly, sounding a bit more strained than Bilbo had expected, “why? Are you alright?”

“What part of 'my life was threatened' do you not understand?” Bilbo utters wearily, burrowing in the sheets, the warmth and softness of them really inviting at that moment, “I told you I can only handle so much.”

“Hmm,” the man offers.

“ _Hmm,_ Gandalf?”

“Sorry, sorry. Well, I'm glad to hear you're in once piece. And you'll be glad to hear that I had a little talk with your Mister Zundush yesterday.”

“Oh, so you... you caught him?” Bilbo asks nervously, “arrested him, or... or something?”

“I can't really do that, Bilbo,” Gandalf says overly kindly, as if talking to a child, “he didn't do anything wrong, strictly speaking.”

“Didn't do anything _wrong?_ ” Bilbo exclaims, “he said I'd be _dealt with,_ whatever that means!”

“Yes, he did,” Gandalf sighs, “and that's exactly it. Just words, nothing more. Did you really think he would be the one to hurt you? If they wanted you dead, you'd have been dead a long time ago, and not by the hand of Mister Zundush.”

“Oh, _that's_ reassuring!”

“I'm sorry. But the point is, they wanted to scare you, you do realize that, right? Honestly, if I were you, I'd be a little offended they thought someone of Mister Zundush's caliber would do the trick.”

Bilbo remembers the man's face, completely deceiving in its round honesty, and his laughter, dry, colorless, infinitely more menacing than one would expect to hear from him, and his words, quiet, but somehow digging into Bilbo's very marrow, only made all the more ominous in juxtaposition with the beautiful music playing in the background as the fountain came to life... He shivers.

“I don't think I'm as resilient as you believe me to be,” he peeps.

“Nonsense!” Gandalf chuckles, “you're every bit as resilient as I believe you to be, the only problem is you don't believe it yourself.”

Bilbo groans, rolling over and half-burying his face in a pillow.

“What now, then?” he asks reluctantly, “what did Zundush tell you?”

“Not all that much,” Gandalf admits, “nothing we didn't already know. This week is crucial, and we think Bundushar will try to use the next weekend, with all the culminating celebrations, to his benefit – cause a little chaos.”

“Cause a little chaos _how?_ ” Bilbo moans.

“Well, as you and I both know, he has some leverage.”

Bilbo closes his eyes. The image of the man in the large white room, in the large white bed, his face almost as pale as the sheets, is blurry in his mind now, sort of hazy – indeed he'd much prefer if it were a dream.

“What does he want with the man... Thorin's father?” he asks quietly, suddenly inexplicably worried that someone might be listening in, “I mean... how is he alive in the first place?”

“Unclear,” Gandalf replies simply, “but that's not for you to worry about now. I told you I'd like your help with something once you return to the capital, but for now... Take some rest. Forget all about this for these next few days. You're coming back on Thursday, correct?”

“Yes,” Bilbo sighs, “but Gandalf-”

“I'll keep you posted.”

“You _never_ keep me posted.”

Gandalf merely laughs shortly and hangs up, and the silence of the room seeps back in. Bilbo tries forgetting all about it, tries going back to sleep, but he can't fool himself much longer – he's not _that_ fragile. Despite his stomach, still somewhat undecided about the current state of affairs, he feels well-rested, and there's no reason for him to lounge in here for too long, without anything to do. He crawls out of the bed to the soft tapping of raindrops, and by the time he makes it back downstairs, drizzle has turned into rain.

“September shouldn't be like this,” Deidre complains, washing the dishes in the kitchen, “it's usually still hot, and October's the nasty one.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but the distant, guttural roll of thunder does the job for him, and Deidre sighs profoundly.

“This is still rather wonderful, let me tell you,” Bilbo mutters, trying to translate bits and pieces of the culture section of yesterday's copy of The Erebor _A_ _mradînhund_ lying on the table, “I think I've had more sunny days in these past months here than I've had in my entire life back in England... What's, eh, _sig_ _amtêk_ mean?”

“Impatient,” Deidre offers, “...do you miss it?”

“Oh, I see, so the lead actor was too _impatient,_ right, that does make more sense... Sorry, miss what?”

“England,” she says calmly, and her back is turned to him, so she doesn't see him tense up a little bit, fortunately.

“Oh,” he mumbles, “oh, England. I... well. Sometimes?”

“Are you asking me to guess?” she laughs.

“No, I... oh my. It's not that I don't miss it, it's just that... well,” Bilbo manages lamely, but decides if he's really going to talk about this to anyone, why not Deidre?

“I don't miss... I don't miss the country, per se,” he says quietly, “Erebor suits me better, I think, with all the... the warmth, and the food, and people who are _actually_ polite, instead of putting on a front. Much more... emotional, too. I like that. What I do miss is... well, you see, there's nothing... nothing of that left there, so to speak.”

She hums in vague approval, or understanding, and really, Bilbo appreciates that she goes on with her work, not interrupting him with questions, or compassionate ooh's and aww's. He really does feel strangely at ease. Maybe it's the lightness in his temples, sort of like after a horrible headache; coupled with the tea, probably.

“I went to a university in America, you see,” he continues quietly and somewhat broadly, “so all the friends I made there pretty much... stayed there. After my mother died, I sort of... lost interest in the larger part of our more or less distant relatives. It's my fault, really – they're still there, I just don't, erm... keep in touch all that much.”

“Shame.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, then, attempting a lighter tone, “though it's very time-consuming, you know. There's a lot of them. Actually, quite a number of them, I saw last at... at my mother's funeral. Well. That's some time ago.”

“How long?” she asks casually, now cleaning the counter, and Bilbo knows that she's not trying to be invasive, giving him plenty of room to shut up at any time, but he doesn't feel the need.

“Six years,” he peeps.

“What about your father?”

“Oh, died when I was barely ten. Don't remember much about him.”

She does turn to look at him then, scrutinizing, as if she's expecting him to break, crack open a little bit, but years and years of family reunions and such have stonewalled Bilbo when it comes to talking about his parents' deaths – it's either that, facing it all with calm dignity, or tearing his hair out at his various cousins' bluntness. Compared to them, Deidre is a saint. Well, she's a saint either way.

“Either way,” he offers what he hopes is a convincing smile, “they are what I miss. Not England.”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it again, as if the answer she had in mind became distasteful at some point, and merely smiles back.

“My Mam worked as a maid for the old Queen,” she offers conversationally, “and my _Adad_ was the groundskeeper, back when the Palace didn't require so much groundskeeping, heh.”

“So your family have been with the royal family for...?”

“Oh, as long as I can remember. My grandfather was the King's personal valet, and fought by his side in the First World War, I think. So yes, a long time.”

Bilbo watches her stack cutlery into the drawers, and feels suddenly a bit sad.

“Deidre?” he mutters, “do you think I could bake something?”

“Bake?” she raises an eyebrow, “bake what?”

“Oh, I don't know, I mean... I don't know what we have here, I just thought... Well, you see, it's a sort of stress release for me, baking,” he stammers, and she grins.

“I see. Well, we do have flour, at least.”

“...Good, good.”

“And I think Beorn is hiding some compotes in his pantry. I'm sure if _you_ ask him nicely, he'll be more than happy to let you use them.”

“Excellent, though I was thinking more along the lines of... hmm, cupcakes, maybe? Though that's impossible without a baking tin...”

“Oh, hold on!” Deidre exclaims, and fumbles about in the cupboards, “I knew I saw it somewhere, the other day when the boys wanted the _ablug_ _ùvôn_... Aha!”

It's a bit rusty, the dark blue lacquer flaking off, but Bilbo feels a smile spreading that he can't quite stop – it reminds him of his mother's cupcake tin so much. They were the first thing that she taught him to bake, a regular part of their weekend breakfasts, and over the years, Bilbo has never abandoned them, were it to the immense glee of his roommates (to this day, he's still proud of his chocolate chip variation with the extra... spice), or to soothe his own disturbed and heavy mind after his mother died.

After some scouring of the stock of both the main house's fridge, and Beorn's pantry, he comes up with enough ingredients for whole two batches of what he decides will be blueberry cupcakes, and changing into an old tee and a borrowed apron, he's suddenly more at peace than he's been in a long while. Making him swear not to burn the kitchen down, Deidre leaves him to do her own work, and he's left alone in the kitchen, the radio now blaring a mixture of silly nineties pop music and quick Khuzdul news reports, and he's happy, really, genuinely happy, as rare an article as it is. All his troubles are miles away for that short, precious time, the only worry he has is to figure out how the oven works, and if it bakes properly...

“ _K_ _ikhùgir ghelekh_ – oh.”

Bilbo is just bent over in half, checking on the progress inside the oven, and is lucky not to hit his head on the counter as he swivels to look. Thorin has trailed into the kitchen, carrying an impressive load of files to be signed or read or something.

“Oh, um, hi, hello, Your Majesty,” Bilbo stammers, “I was just... baking.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Thorin smiles lightly, “so I take it you're feeling better?”

“Much better, yes,” Bilbo replies swiftly, trying not to think too hard about fainting in the King's arms, if that indeed did happen.

“Good,” Thorin says simply, then lingers in the doorway as Bilbo lingers by the counter – if the two of them are truly good at something, it's probably awkward silences, really.

“I was going to do some work here, because the drawing room is currently occupied by Dwalin scolding his men for some reason,” Thorin explains, “but I wouldn't want to...”

“Oh, no no, stay,” Bilbo blurts out before he can really think twice about it, and he's just glad he stops his hands from flying to his mouth.

“I mean... I don't mind,” he babbles, “I can... I could make you a cup of coffee, if you like?”

Thorin narrows his eyes, but his smile is still in place, and then, as if making some sort of important decision, he exhales and sets his load on the table, and somehow, Bilbo feels himself relaxing, rather than stressing any more.

“That's black, no milk, two sugars, correct?” he asks, and the King chuckles.

“You really don't need to be making my coffee,” he declares, “let me.”

And he goes to stand by Bilbo's side, opening the cupboard and reaching for the can on the top shelf with ease, and Bilbo thinks, well, that's suddenly a bit too much Thorin and not enough room.

“Really, I've yet to wash the dishes, and the cupcakes will be ready in a minute...”

The spoon in Thorin's hand freezes in mid-air, and he grins, glancing at Bilbo.

“Am I in your way?”

“Are you – well, of course you're in my way!” Bilbo scowls, maneuvering around him to get to the sink.

“My apologies,” the King offers simply, and in the next second, stands so close that their hips brush, Bilbo almost dropping his dishcloth, but Thorin seems unfazed, pouring the kettle full of water.

“One for you?”

“Hmm?” Bilbo mumbles, currently a teensy bit preoccupied with Thorin's bare forearm as his hand twists the tap.

“Lots of milk, lots of sugar, correct?”

At last, Bilbo manages to look up, and sees that the King is gazing at him expectantly, smiling slightly, and oh gosh, he always manages to forget about the crinkles around his eyes...

“N-no, I, I'm staying off coffee today,” he manages, “not sure my blood pressure could handle that so soon after...”

“Right,” Thorin nods, not giving Bilbo enough time to get properly embarrassed, thank god.

“But, eh, I suppose I could have another cup of tea,” he decides quickly, “excuse me.”

And with a brashness he didn't know he had, he brushes past Thorin to get his teabag, and feels his eyes on him as he prepares his own cup. He's almost relieved – correction, a lot relieved – when the ancient timer rings, announcing that the cupcakes should be ready.

“Now, honestly, out of my way,” he orders as he moves to fetch the oven mitts, “I'll finish all of this, you go finish your work.”

He doesn't really know where the need to be a bit cheeky comes from, but the King simply chuckles and obliges, and Bilbo sighs happily as he takes the tray out of the oven – the cupcakes are perfect, puffy and even, the golden crust disturbed here and there by specks of the dark purple of the blueberries, and they smell _divine._ He sets them away to cool off a little bit before he takes them out and refills the tin with the second batch of the dough, and as he goes to finish Thorin's coffee and his tea, the radio starts playing a ridiculously peppy tune, some sort of rock'n'roll-type thing.

“Should I switch this off?” he asks over his shoulder, “so that you can work?”

The King looks up just as Bilbo carries his coffee over, and he's wearing his glasses again, tapping a pen on his lips lightly, and Bilbo does his best to maintain what he hopes is a carefully neutral expression, even faced with such obviously infuriating beauty.

“That won't be necessary,” Thorin says, “this is just... oh, just a lot of papers that require my signature, really. Nothing too challenging. Thank you.”

He reaches for his cup before Bilbo can set it down, enveloping it in his hands, his fingers brushing at Bilbo's knuckles, and... alright, well, _naturally_ his heart has decided now would be a good moment to betray him. He doesn't let anything show, of course, just hurries back to the relative safety of his kitchen workspace, resolving that washing the dishes would be the smartest course of action, since he it allows him to concentrate on something simple and menial, rather than the sight of the King so obviously at ease. _And didn't you feel a bit like throwing up, and a bit more like curling up in bed and never coming out,_ _not so long_ _ago?_ For all intents and purposes, he should be everything _but_ comfortable in Thorin's presence, and yet... The faint headache is gone, and so is the cold in his fingertips, and of course he could attribute all of that to the baking, but the fact that he doesn't feel like running out of the room, none of his previous happiness leaving him, is surely a testament to... to something.

The cheerful song ends, and what follows is the first mellow, drawn out violin notes of a piece Bilbo knows far too well. His mother would listen to Peter Gabriel in the evenings, ironing, or knitting, or just like Bilbo now, baking, and it brings back memories of coming home after a particularly stressful semester and burrowing in his favorite armchair in the living room, trying not to think too hard about how much older Belladonna looked every time.

'Your father and me used to dance to this', she would remind him whenever _The Book of Love_ came on, and Bilbo is frozen, both a random bowl and the dishcloth forgotten in his hands, and he tries his damnedest to fight off the sudden onslaught of nostalgia. Not to mention that the lyrics, coupled with Collins' incredible voice, are a bit too much even in the present circumstances. He very seriously considers switching the radio off, but he can't quite move properly, and besides, how would that look?

The water's still running, and so he thinks it's the murmur of it at first, but then he realizes it's the King, humming along, and Bilbo will be damned if that isn't simultaneously the strangest and most endearing thing he's ever seen Thorin do. He's afraid to turn and look to confirm his suspicions lest the moment is broken, and so he resumes washing the dishes, slowly and somewhat dazedly.

“This played at my sister's wedding,” Thorin says then, very quietly, and yet again, Bilbo thinks he's misheard, because what on earth would possess the King to confide something like that in him?

“Oh, right, the, the 'wedding rings' and all that,” he mutters feebly, and tries to get the image of his mother smiling at him from across the room out of his mind.

“And the dancing, yes,” comes a soft reply, and when the chair creaks as Thorin gets up, Bilbo almost jumps.

This is all very odd, and... what? Does the King want to reenact his sister's wedding dance in the kitchen, with Bilbo? He almost yelps when Thorin appears at his side quite soundlessly, but he simply goes to open the fridge, and pour some milk into his coffee – Bilbo watches the whites swirl and turn into beiges, quite mesmerized.

“Too strong?” he mutters faintly, and the King doesn't look at him, but smiles nevertheless.

“For the first time in years, yes,” he replies a bit vaguely, and to the last deep, long tones of the song, Bilbo watches him take a testing sip, then looks away sharply, staring at his own hands.

Well, this is... something. Not-quite-moments over coffee and cooling cupcakes, with a soundtrack that would be more suited for the closing scene of some romantic flick of barely passable quality...

“Ah... hey! Leave that!” he exclaims then, the sight of Thorin trying to claim one of the cupcakes for himself clearing his mind a little bit, and the King's hand freezes, hovering, and Bilbo tries very hard not to giggle at how genuinely sheepish he looks.

“They're not even out of the tray yet,” Bilbo scolds him, a part of him already realizing how disgustingly domestic the whole thing is.

“It's your fault they look so delicious,” Thorin grumbles, and Bilbo pfft's in disbelief, expertly tugging the tray away from his reach.

“Patience,” he declares firmly, then, deciding to add somewhat brashly, “the virtue of Kings, is it not?”

The King exhales sharply in a seemingly offended scoff, and Bilbo ignores him, tapping the top of the cupcakes carefully, testing, deciding that he'd best forget about that little moment of vulnerability one song made him feel, and move on. This is... this is more fun, anyway. He wriggles the cupcakes out of the tray one by one, setting them on a plate. Thorin hovers still, a tall shadow out of the corner of Bilbo's eye, and he's half tempted to order him to step away because he's blocking the light. But he moves away on his own, and Bilbo feels him far too well, circling behind him, his intentions clear, and so when he appears on the other side, he nonchalantly slides the plate of cupcakes far away to where he stood only a couple of seconds ago. Thorin makes a displeased sound, and Bilbo raises his eyebrow, uttering: “Asking would probably get you a long way, you know.”

The King harrumphs, and he _might be_ standing not inches away, but Bilbo will ignore that, for his own sake.

“Could I please have one of your no doubt delicious cupcakes?” he asks so seriously Bilbo can't quite control the grin or the blush, and he reaches for the plate.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says.

Somehow, there's barely room enough between the two of them to put the plate up, and it's ridiculous, really, but Bilbo can't quite look away as Thorin peels off the paper cup very graciously.

“Milk.”

A saving grace of an idea forms itself and he blurts it out, hurrying to the fridge and pouring them both a glass – he expects it's better than standing there and watching the King eat his cupcake. ...That sounded horrible even in his head.

“Good god,” Thorin says with his mouth full, “remind me why we didn't hire you as a cook.”

“You wanted your nephew to learn something, as opposed to getting fat,” Bilbo offers lightly, and unwraps a cupcake of his own, deciding that the second batch can wait two more minutes.

“He's smart enough,” Thorin mumbles through his bites, “I'll reconsider.”

“I want to be paid by the cupcake,” Bilbo says dryly.

They really are rather good, he resolves after biting in – the fresh blueberries definitely help a great deal, and he can't wait to...

“Leave something for the boys, would you?” he exclaims, Thorin already having finished his cupcake and reaching for another one.

“Just one more, and it's up to you to get this away from me,” the King informs him, “I can't vouch for myself when it comes to prolonged exposure to baked goods.”

“Good to know,” Bilbo chuckles, “now off you go, I need to finish the second batch.”

“Off I go,” Thorin repeats as if the phrase is amusing in some way, but obliges, glass of milk in one hand and a cupcake in the other, and Bilbo watches him fondly before remembering himself and turning back to his work.

He refills the tray with paper cups and pours the rest of the runny dough in, sliding it back into the oven, and he's all but whistling by the end of it – perhaps accepting that he is capable of being at ease around the King is the easiest course of action.

“By the way, erm... thank you,” he offers, setting the timer for another twenty minutes, eying Thorin carefully.

“For?” the King doesn't look up from his work, only raises an eyebrow.

“Deidre tells me you arranged for the boys to spend the day away, and I... well, I hope it's not too horrible to admit, but I really needed that.”

Thorin does glance at him then, and Bilbo finds the smile is mutual.

“Yes, I thought you might,” the King nods, “though I didn't take you for a fainter – are you sure you're alright? Uh... health-wise?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, but the genuine concern in Thorin's voice makes him incapable of producing anything past a slightly incredulous chuckle.

“I'm fine, really,” he replies, “it was nothing. Well, it was-”

_A man appearing out of nowhere and threatening my life, and all the lies and dangers finally being too much for my frankly somewhat feeble system to handle._

“-the crowd, I think. The... the rush, and all. I think I forgot to eat, too, and that's never a good idea...”

“Well,” Thorin clears his throat, “I'm glad you're alright now.”

“Yes, I'm... yes.”

The King is smiling, and Bilbo is smiling, if a bit nervously, not even attempting to conceal it, wringing the dishcloth in his hands, and a man on the radio chatters away in quick Khuzdul, and there's too much color in Bilbo's cheeks, and too much kindness in Thorin's eyes, and...

And that's it really, isn't it. That's as far is it gets, will ever get, Bilbo suspects. It's not like either of them can really... make the first step and, and _initiate_ something. Though Bilbo thinks that if he were to cross the distance now and take Thorin's head in his hands, tilt it up and kiss him, neither of them would really have it in them to object. Which is terrible. Terrible, horrible, inconvenient. He's been using that word – all of those words – a lot lately. He could... he could throw caution to the wind and go for it, because he's not _completely_ stupid, he recognizes when the, ehh... tension is mutual (well, at least he recognizes it _now,_ because it's impossible to miss, written in big bold letters across both his and Thorin's face). But that would be a temporary solution, or, not even a solution at all. It would only lead to more heartache, and confusion, and probably make the inevitable falling out between them even worse. It's funny, he admits to himself, how casually he thinks about what's to come these days, not doubting the outcome for a second, simply just waiting for it to happen. They have barely three days left in this house, and somehow, he has a very strong feeling that those will be the very last three days of peace he'll be getting in a while. He intends to savor them, and knows what would make him savor them best, but on the list of reckless and silly things to do when one doesn't care about the consequences, making things personal with the King is definitely number one, with a huge red warning exclamation mark.

His somewhat gloomy train of thought is fortunately interrupted when Deidre walks into the kitchen, announcing that the Princes are back, and Fili and Kili follow shortly after, rushing in, loud and somewhat disheveled.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims, and runs to hug him where he can reach, much to everyone's surprise.

“Well, you're chipper,” Bilbo laughs, ruffling his hair, “what on earth have you been doing all day?”

“I believe the Khirikhbuzuns have a trampoline at their house,” Thorin remarks, but it dies off under Fili's victorious: “Oooh, cupcakes!”, and he hurries to the counter as well.

“ _Khajimu_ _!_ ” Kili demands, and before Bilbo can really react to the sudden chaos around him, Fili grunts, biting down on his cupcake, and hoisting his brother up so that he sits on the counter next to the plate of still cooling cakes, his legs swaying happily as he peels off the paper somewhat inexpertly.

“These are really good!” Fili grins at Bilbo, his mouth full, “did you bake them?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did,” Bilbo replies, and Fili gives him a thumbs-up as he chews.

“Go~od,” Kili sings, his eyes sparkling as he smiles at Bilbo amicably, his eating habits much more polite that his brother's – though when he sees that Fili is almost finished, he all but stuffs the rest of his cupcake in his mouth, paper cup be damned, smearing a stray blueberry over his cheek.

“Well, you're both a handful,” Bilbo huffs, “seems that you had a great day.”

As he taps Kili's cheek to show him where to clean it off, and Fili launches into a detailed description of what they did at the Prime Minister's house, Bilbo exchanges a warm smile with Thorin – it doesn't quite go away. The boys really do provide a whole other source of energy, and one day without them is quite enough – Bilbo is glad they're back now.

“...And what about you?” Fili asks then, accepting a glass of milk from Bilbo, “does your head hurt?”

“Not anymore,” Bilbo smiles.

“No more fainting?” Kili giggles.

“No more fainting.”

“Good, because _Indâd_ had a hard time carrying you last night,” Fili offers very solemnly.

Bilbo's mouth hangs agape as his cheeks heat up, and Deidre bursts into laughter, while the King chokes on the leftover milk he was just drinking.

“I didn't!” he exclaims as if it's a personal offense, “I assure you you're... perfectly portable, Professor.”

Deidre tries and fails to muffle her laughter, while the boys giggle unabashedly, and Bilbo devotes all his willpower into dissolving into a puddle on the ground, but somehow, he ends up snorting in laughter himself, and Thorin's eyes are gleaming when they exchange a glance.

“I, I've never been called that before,” Bilbo manages, and the King grins before he looks away, and Bilbo's heart is beating out a rather frantic samba, the mixture of the full, genuine smile, and the crow's feet around Thorin's eyes, and Bilbo's own certainly ridiculously red cheeks, a perfectly deadly one.

To top it all off, the timer rings again, and Kili yelps with a startled gasp and tumbles off the counter, both boys bursting into laughter again. Fortunately Deidre decides to assist, shooing them away as Bilbo fumbles for the oven mitts and takes out the second tray, the cupcakes no less perfect than the first time. The radio plays some quick tune in Khuzdul that Bilbo doesn't know, but the Princes both start singing along, and the kitchen is definitely a bit too crowded now, a bit too loud, but Bilbo relishes it. He'd never admit it, but it brings back a memory he didn't know he had, of some weekend dinner at home when he was very little, before his father passed away – Belladonna had invited her sister along, and the two women chattered away over the steaming pots on the stove, while the fathers sat by the old radio, listening to a sports match or some such thing, and Bilbo and Lobelia's children were at the table, too small in the chairs, their feet dangling off, shoving each other's elbows away as they all doodled something... It was loud, and overcrowded, and wonderful, and Bilbo remembers it in ethereally bright colors, this one pristine image like a postcard, and he thinks this moment right here, with the Princes trying to sing in tune with the song, sitting by their Uncle's side, and Deidre clambering around in the fridge, will be preserved in his memory in much the same way.

In the evening, they all sit in the living room, the boys watching this or that Disney classic, curled up at Bilbo's side, and he feels the worries and anxiety knocking again – the repetitive mantra of ' _this won't last long'_ and _'you're hurting all of them'_ and _'get away while you still can'_ makes his heart hammer in his chest, and a dull unease weigh on his shoulders, and really, he's never been the one for mood swings, but he realizes now that he might very well come out of this thing with a diagnosis or two. But what scares him more, what never fails to make him shiver and want to be as far away as possible from this place and this time, is imagining how the King will take it, and how the Princes will react.

Thorin has been known for his outbursts, of course, but Bilbo doesn't really fear his rage. Shouting and condemning and such, he could handle. But it will not be that simple, no – because learning that the one person who has been so close to his nephews, the only remainder of his family, has been lying to him for so long, is one thing. But then there's the aspect of Thorin's father being alive, if it is true, and Bilbo would like to think that that problem could just... disappear, but no, Thorin will find out sooner or later, and that is the sort of thing that breaks people.

And the boys... at that moment, Kili giggles and Fili utters something in Khuzdul that Bilbo can't understand, and he is overcome by an almost overwhelming fondness for them. They will be so confused – people will try explaining it all to them, but how could anyone expect them to understand? He imagines leaving them behind, and it reminds him of the scene eons ago, when he had an argument with Thorin over taking the Princes out behind his back, and they came rushing in, Kili begging his Uncle not to fire Bilbo, and Fili spiteful and enraged... He wonders if leaving them will revert them to that state, all progress that they have made thanks to Bilbo lost, also thanks to Bilbo...

The urge to get away is sudden and nauseating, and he feels short of breath – really, he's lived this long without developing any sort of anxiety, and all it takes is one royal family. He gets up a bit too abruptly, surprising the Princes, but he smiles at them easily enough, uttering: “I'll be right back.”, and they simply go back to watching. Facing Thorin, who sits in the armchair by the arched window in the far corner of the room, is a bit more difficult. Bilbo hopes that he will go unnoticed, but the King looks up, his face illuminated by the screen of his tablet, and smiles, and Bilbo really, _really_ wants to smile back, but even his face betrays him, crumpling, and he hurries out of the room before he can see the King frowning in confusion.

The house is blissfully quiet and empty, Deidre sharing drinks with Beorn in his hut, from what Bilbo understands, and so he dashes into the kitchen without running into anybody. He doesn't even bother switching the lights on, the darkness and the faint glow from the outside dancing on the tiled floor strangely soothing. He goes to pour himself a glass of water, and a bitter chuckle escapes him at the sight of the couple of leftover muffins – was it really only earlier today that he was thinking in terms of _'cherishing these memories forever'_ and all that rot? How wonderful. He's losing his mind.

The cold water helps a bit, and he supports himself on the counter with both hands, hanging his head and breathing deeply, as if he's just run a marathon – maybe he should bill Gandalf when he's hospitalized with something. And Bard, just for good measure. This is too much – maybe this is his breaking point. No, wait, wasn't that last night, when he fainted?

“New lows,” he grunts quietly, “new _bloody_ lows.”

“Everything alright?”

Bilbo squeaks like a startled rabbit and turns to look, and hell, _of course_ it's Thorin standing in the doorway. Brilliant.

“Fine,” he replies, but it comes out a strained gasp, and so he tries again, “I'm fine. Just... head rush. Of sorts. I think.”

“Right,” the King mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, and he's not smiling, not even a little bit, and Bilbo gulps nervously.

“I hate to see you like this,” Thorin continues, and Bilbo very nearly whines in desperation – he can't quite handle another conversation heading in all the wrong directions, he thinks.

“I'm just a little shaken up,” he mutters, turning away from Thorin to finish his drink and mentally stonewalling himself so that when he looks back at him, he's smiling easily.

“I promise there will be no more fainting,” he adds, trying not to cringe at the same time at the impossibly light tone of his own voice, “it was rather unprofessional.”

“Be that as it may,” Thorin says, “it still seems to me like you're under too much pressure.”

Bilbo does his very best not to let the incredulous huff of laughter get past his lips. Too much pressure. Oh boy.

“I think I can handle it,” he replies, then, a bit more tentatively, “I hope.”

_Lies, lies._

“I can't help but feel like... like I've only made things worse with...”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo blurts out, entirely too terrified of where _that_ particular line of dialogue could lead, “no no. That was, erm... just more unprofessional behavior on my side.”

Thorin chuckles very softly, and when did he move from the door to the table and so frighteningly close to Bilbo? This isn't going to end well.

“I think we've established that when it comes to you, protocol doesn't concern me,” Thorin offers, and, well, dammit, that could be taken in a number of ways, one more confusing than the other.

“That doesn't seem like a sound strategy,” Bilbo peeps.

“Ridiculous strategies are the only ones I seem to be able to come up with where you're concerned,” Thorin says smoothly, and Bilbo blinks at him helplessly, because blatant pick-up lines like this are something he neither expects nor is capable of dealing with.

“Um,” he manages, absolutely petrified when he feels the blush creeping into his cheeks and the smile on his lips, “I'm pretty sure that makes me a, a threat to the integrity of the Crown... or something.”

“That sounds dangerously like something Dwalin would say,” the King snickers, and Bilbo remembers faintly that it is indeed something Dwalin said to him, not so long ago, but what currently fascinates him more, is the speed with which the overall mood of the situation has changed, at least from where he's standing.

Surely that can't be healthy. Oh, and the way Thorin's eyes gleaming in the darkness steal all his attention away is _definitely_ not healthy.

“Well, would he be wrong?” Bilbo says quietly, one part of his mind racing as it tries to come up with a way to get out of this, this conversation and this room both, before something happens that neither of them can take back.

The other, unfortunately more prominent, part of his mind is far too preoccupied with Thorin's.... everything, to care for the consequences overmuch.

“Very,” the King replies simply.

“Ah,” Bilbo comments eloquently.

“The integrity of the Crown hinges on my ability to think straight, you see.”

“And... what? I improve that?”

Thorin laughs again, low and pleasant, and Bilbo's breath hitches in his throat when he steps closer – he's standing with his back to the counter, and there's nowhere to run now. Not that he could force his legs to move, even if he tried.

“Not as long as I need to worry about you.”

_Oh. Dear. God._

“I'm sorry, that really isn't very professional at all of me to-”

“How about,” Thorin interrupts him, moving even closer, all but hovering over Bilbo now, “you stop using that word if I tell you that hiring a very unprofessional tutor was one of the best decisions of my life.”

“I... hm,” Bilbo gasps, and something is trying to tell him he shouldn't be here, that this shouldn't be happening, but those warning bells are dulled by his beating heart, and the almost deafening tension in the air.

Thorin's standing so close he can all but feel the heat he radiates, and that's very, very distracting. What was all that about... ruining everything if he lets things get personal? What was that about dangers and lies and bad conscience? Oh lord, thinking is hard right now, and Bilbo almost wants to ask Thorin to stop smiling, so that he can clear his head, please and thank you. He doesn't really know why, but there's something wrong about the King being the one to make the first step, to close the distance – _if you are to do this_ , Bilbo's brain supplies in a moment of clarity, _let this be your fault in its entirety._ The idea of Thorin blaming himself for being the source of Bilbo's stress is unthinkable, and unfortunately, at that moment, the one way that Bilbo can think of that would make him believe otherwise, is to show him that... well, that stress is the last thing he feels in his presence.

He gathers all his foolish bravado and pushes himself off the counter, standing up straighter, and reaches for the King's hand.

“You and I are going to have to have a talk about your screening process for glorified nannies,” he supplies a bit lamely, but it's worth it, because Thorin's eyes all but light up as he chuckles, and his fingers are just as warm as Bilbo has been trying to forget when they close around his hand, and then they're inches apart, and it's done. _The fates are sealed,_ Bilbo thinks in a split second, but it only makes him grin, and he reaches up with his other hand, cupping the side of Thorin's neck ever so lightly, and later on, he will have no idea how they got here or how he could ever allow this to happen, but all that matters now is Thorin's hand sliding from his and settling on his hip gingerly as they kiss.

It is feather-light, but no less dazzling for that – at first it's nothing but the brush of lips on lips, Thorin inhaling as Bilbo gasps softly, some unspoken agreement created between them, and a tingle dances up Bilbo's spine as Thorin's hand moves from his hip to the small of his back. He cradles the King's cheeks in both his hands, moving even closer, trying to kiss a _'please don't doubt I want this'_ and an _'I'm sorry'_ into his lips at the same time, and Thorin responds ever so tenderly. There is no particular hunger involved; just an almost lazy thoroughness. Frankly, Bilbo forgets everything but the warmth of Thorin's chest and arms, and the scrape of his beard against his own skin, and forgets it easily, entirely too easily.

His hips buck forward quite on their own accord, and his hands snake from Thorin's face around his neck as his whole body longs to be closer, and the King wraps one arm around Bilbo's waist almost possessively, taking a step forward. It never even disrupts Bilbo's balance, he simply lets himself be steered a little bit, and he ends up with his back to the counter again – he doesn't even have to tiptoe for him, Thorin lets himself be pulled lower by Bilbo's arms, bending at an angle that would have Bilbo worried if he were capable of being worried about anything at all. He parts his lips further, a bit valiantly and a bit recklessly, and something like a strained moan escapes Thorin as he accepts the invitation, their kissing losing some of its gentleness, but gaining in depth, and really, it's all so blissfully simple for that one fleeting moment...

The attempt to break the kiss is half-hearted at best, on both sides – even as their lips part, they keep coming back for seconds, and thirds, and fifths, nothing but gentle pecks accompanied by soft gasps as their smiles return. At last, Bilbo ducks his head, his hands now sliding a tad lower and resting on Thorin's chest, and he marvels at how well they fit together. He senses Thorin bowing his head as well, and he looks up, almost failing to resist more kissing when he's met with his lips so close. But he manages, seeking Thorin's eyes instead.

“W-well then,” he breathes out.

“Hmm,” Thorin offers, the corners of his mouth quirking in a smile, and his hand sliding from the back of Bilbo's neck and down his spine effectively making him incapable of concentrating on maintaining any sort of dialogue.

“Horribly unprofessional,” he whispers, because he isn't quite capable of more, and Thorin grunts.

“I thought we had agreed you'd stop using that word.”

“Sorry.”

Thorin's nose brushes at his cheek, and Bilbo surrenders to another kiss, exhaling deeply, and it feels like an unnamed weight is being lifted off his shoulders at the same time.

But the next thought that manages to penetrate the haze of pleasure and content, does make him freeze a little bit.

“...Video cameras?” he offers faintly when he has the room to do so, and Thorin's brow furrows in confusion, before his eyebrows arch up, and he straightens up a bit.

“Oh,” he acknowledges, “probably, yes.”

He gazes at Bilbo, who shrugs, and they both burst into quiet laughter. His hands are a very pleasant pressure on Bilbo's back now, his fingers curling and uncurling very gently, and he has a hard time coming up with an excuse to care about anything beyond that. He tries nevertheless.

“Shouldn't we, um...”

“Probably,” Thorin mumbles and follows this with a kiss.

“But won't we...?”

“Get in trouble? I think we're long past that.”

“All I'm saying is... oh, _come now,_ ” Bilbo chuckles, Thorin still adamant on not letting him speak much – he lays his palms flat against his chest and does his best to angle his head away a little bit, even though it's so very low on the list of things he wants to be doing right now.

“We should think ahead a bit,” he sighs, albeit a bit shakily, “like... five minutes, at least.”

Thorin makes a slightly displeased sound, a low rumble reverberating in Bilbo's chest in a way that makes him want to return to his blissful ignorance immediately, but then the King sighs heavily and takes a small step back.

“Right, of course,” he utters, but Bilbo is glad that he doesn't break the physical contact – his hands now rest on Bilbo's waist, and the urge to let himself be pulled back into an embrace is almost too much, really.

“Well,” Bilbo declares instead, forcing at least some power into his voice, “what, erm... what happens now?”

Thorin chuckles lightly, gazing down to where he's holding Bilbo, as if to make sure he's still there.

“I'm sorry,” he replies quietly, “but you've got me incapable of thinking further ahead than those five minutes you mentioned.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, cupping his cheek, and hearing his own name from Bilbo's lips is enough for the King to look up into his eyes – he scrutinizes Bilbo for a moment, as if searching for something, and then he exhales, looking away.

“Right,” he says, “what happens next. Hmm.”

“I promise... eh, I promise I won't walk away from you again,” Bilbo babbles somewhat feebly, surprising himself with the honesty, “so that's one thing.”

Thorin's smile broadens, and Bilbo's chest swells.

“Good.”

“The, erm... the movie will be over soon,” Bilbo continues somewhat shakily, “I'll have to get the boys to, to shower and go to bed, and then...”

“And then?” Thorin breathes out, and Bilbo _knows_ he should be trying to think clearly, but he continues to fail epically.

“I will, ah... I mean, I should...”

“I expect Dwalin will want to speak to me,” the King supplies when Bilbo runs out of comprehensible things to say, “about... the integrity of the Crown, I imagine.”

“Oh god,” Bilbo utters, and Thorin chuckles.

One of his hands trails down Bilbo's forearm, their fingers tangling together, and Bilbo is quite entranced by the sight, until Thorin murmurs: “It'll be fine.”

Bilbo looks up into his eyes, _knowing_ that it will be many things, but least of all fine, but all he manages is a very quiet and very weak: “For how long?”

Thorin's eyes widen and then he sighs raggedly, gazing out of the window, his jaw clenching, as if he's preparing himself for some difficult task. Well, that might not be far from the truth at all.

“I'll go talk to Dwalin now,” he declares, “provided he saw, of course. You... take care of the boys, and we will... we will talk. Later. Yes?”

For a split second, he looks so lost, torn between hopeful and restrained, and Bilbo can't but smile, squeezing his hand.

“Yes.”

They're both utterly reluctant to break their contact, but manage to do so in the end, and for his part, Bilbo feels colder and colder with each step he takes towards the door. It doesn't really hit him until after they part ways in the hall, exchanging one last smile, wordlessly deciding not to take it any further, and he watches Thorin walk into the drawing room, and admires his bravery. Bilbo himself stands still for what might be thirty seconds or five minutes, and his brain tries to supply him with all the reasons why this was anything but a good idea, but the... the reverie of it actually happening is much stronger still.

He walks back to the living room slowly, somewhat expecting his body to launch into panic any second now. But it doesn't come until later, after he's managed to pacify the Princes enough to take a shower and change into their pajamas, and the taste of Thorin's lips fades somewhat. Suddenly, he's sitting on Kili's bed, staring at the first lines of the chapter he's supposed to read today, and he can't make out the words. His stomach is twisting in knots, and the fright does come then – it's only been a day, for crying out loud, and he's gone from utterly useless and sick in the morning, to unabashedly content in the afternoon over... over sodding _muffins_ , only to get overwhelmed again later, and then, for _some reason,_ he thought it would be a good idea to go and let Thorin sweep him off his feet, figuratively or otherwise.

Oh, he's in so much trouble. He reads the bedtime story mechanically and thinks about worlds tumbling down. Interspersed with remembering how Thorin's hands felt on his back, and his beard on his cheek – god _dammit._ He can't believe he let himself be so stupid, and what's worse, he knows that all inhibitions were lost the second he allowed the kiss to happen – he will now continue to be stupid, there is virtually no getting away from that. This is selfish, so selfish, even hoping he'll get to kiss Thorin again, hoping for things that never actually happen in real life, hoping for anything else than a swift end. He's going to hurt Thorin tenfold when all is revealed, and it's stupid, stupid, _stupid..._

This would all be so much easier to deal with if it weren't for his heart fluttering in his chest and his mind literally switching into a _'he's here he's here he's here'_ mode when he hears a knock on the door seemingly about five seconds after he walks into his bedroom. Thorin's smile is relieved, as if he can't quite believe Bilbo would actually open the door, but he doesn't look too happy overall, and Bilbo swallows heavily as he brushes past him and strides inside.

“So?” he peeps, and Thorin sighs.

He's now standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, and Bilbo notes just how much smaller the room looks now.

 _Cozier,_ his mind supplies almost teasingly. _Like he's the one thing that's been missing all along._ He tries to forget that the second it pops up.

“Oh, the usual,” the King mumbles, “I was reminded of my responsibilities. Advised to think, before I do something that I might regret.”

“The usual,” Bilbo repeats a bit lifelessly, “has this... have you found yourself in this... particular situation before?”

“No,” comes a swift, simple reply, and Thorin crosses the distance between them in two long strides, repeating more gently, “no. Never like this.”

“So, hm,” Bilbo clears his throat, trying his damnedest not be too distracted by Thorin's closeness, “is it safe to assume that you're... about as clueless about... this, as I am?”

“Utterly clueless,” Thorin smiles, and his fingers find Bilbo's wrist, which effectively quells any worry and building panic before it can bubble to the surface.

“That's... good, I suppose,” Bilbo gulps.

“I'll say.”

The kiss is the most tender thing, short and almost too careful, but somehow, it unravels Bilbo more than any other before. An entirely undignified sound escapes him, something between a whimper and a shaky gasp, and he hangs his head, his hands sliding off Thorin's arms slowly and reluctantly.

“Are you sure there's no protocol for this?” he murmurs, and Thorin's laughter is yet another quiet rumble.

“If there were, would you follow it?”

“Well, that depends,” Bilbo grins even though joking is the last thing he should be doing right about now, “would you be the one to write it?”

Thorin rewards that with an amused huff, pulling Bilbo even closer, and he can't but look up and into his eyes then, and if there's any real danger in his life, it's the way Thorin's piercing gaze makes him lose interest in anything else, Bilbo decides.

“How do we... erm, do this, then?” he asks feebly, “I mean...”

“I don't know,” Thorin says very earnestly, his hold loosening somewhat as he puts just enough distance between them so that they're not breathing each other's air, “I really don't.”

“Well, alright,” Bilbo sighs.

“After we return to the Palace, I'll be... very busy.”

“Obviously.”

“The Peace celebrations will conclude with that big event on Sunday, and then the elections...”

“I know.”

The truth is, Bilbo doesn't want to think about all of that, not in the slightest. He dreads the day when he's loaded into a car and taken away from this place, now more than ever – he knows it will mark the end of his (very relative) peace of mind, and probably peace altogether. And now he has... this to deal with, on top of everything, and it's simultaneously the most pleasant and the most terrifying worry out of all of them.

“I reckon we have about two more days of being utterly clueless,” Thorin offers gently, and Bilbo really wants to respond to that, but all the words get lodged somewhere in his throat, and rather painfully at that.

He only ever summons the courage to properly look Thorin in the eye when he feels his fingers on his jaw, and even then it doesn't last long, before the King tilts his head up and presses another kiss to his lips – the softness of it isn't a good thing this time, and Bilbo exhales raggedly, pushing himself closer and deeper into it, and really, he should probably start cataloging these kisses. He doesn't want to forget a single second.

They finish breathless, and for his part, Bilbo feels like his legs might not support him for much longer – this is really swerving out of control quicker than he can keep up with.

“Perhaps we should, um...” he tries, waving his hand vaguely, and Thorin's smile flashes into a grin momentarily.

“Before we do something we might regret later?” he offers.

Bilbo mhm's faintly, quite certain that what they've done so far is already cause enough for later regret. It takes them excruciatingly long, neither of them capable or particularly willing to let go, even though they know they must, but at last, Bilbo is alone again in the room, and feels... empty. He slumps on his bed – he knows that the intensity with which he misses Thorin already shouldn't be the strongest of his worries right now, but alas.

This will end in pain. So much pain. Tears, probably. Well. He should definitely be more afraid than he is. Being a lovesick fool has gotten him into trouble before, but not like this, never like this. _Never like this,_ Thorin had said, and Bilbo spends a good long while thinking about what he meant by that – the implications should flatter him, but when it comes down to it, he might be the first one to... to have interfered with the _integrity of the Crown,_ and, well, isn't that a nice thing to put on one's resume.

He doesn't know how he manages to fall asleep at all, what with straining his ears just in case distant footsteps in the hallway outside announce that Thorin has decided to be reckless even further. But somehow, morning comes, and it's grey and bleary, the rapping of rain an unceasing, quiet murmur.

Horrifyingly enough, none of that bothers him. He wakes up with a smile, even though he can't be quite sure last night really happened. Then he's reminded of... well, real life, and he groans, rolling over onto his back. Blissful ignorance can only ever last so long, and he fears he won't be able to function properly, what with the theories about the consequences of his actions finally catching up with him, but that lasts precisely fifteen minutes. The fifteen minutes it takes to rouse the boys and usher them downstairs for breakfast, at which point he sees Thorin again.

He's at the counter with Deidre by his side, and so Bilbo is almost afraid to look at him properly, but then Thorin notices him, and the smile is impossible to fight off. The Princes are loud and cheerful at the table, demolishing their oatmeal, and Deidre seems to be preoccupied with chopping some vegetables, and the radio is, yet again, supplying an endless stream of more or less obscure songs, and so Bilbo gathers all his courage and goes to stand beside Thorin.

They prepare their coffees wordlessly, shoulders almost brushing, but not quite, and Bilbo is so caught up in all the little details of the moment that he completely misses Deidre asking him something.

“Ah... sorry?” he babbles, and catches Thorin's smirk out of the corner of his eye, and for some reason thinks it would be best rewarded by kicking his leg very lightly, which entices a surprised snort of laughter, disguised as a cough.

“I said,” Deidre narrows her eyes without any real malice, “I hope you're feeling better today.”

“Oh,” Bilbo grins, “oh, yes. Yes, I... much better, thank you.”

“Hmm,” she inclines her head, and Bilbo holds her gaze valiantly until Thorin brushes past both of them and moves to the fridge to get milk.

Both Bilbo and Deidre watch him pour it into Bilbo's cup first (this _really_ shouldn't feel like the most endearing thing Thorin has done yet), and then his own.

“...What?” the King cocks an eyebrow when he sees Deidre all but glaring at him, and Bilbo clears his throat, raking his hand through his hair.

“You don't take milk,” she remarks, and Thorin frowns in confusion for a split second before shrugging and replying lightly: “I do now.”

Deidre's gaze slides from him to Bilbo, who is now clutching his mug in both hands, feeling a bit awkward, and she scowls, as if she's expecting either of them to elaborate on... whatever she thinks is going on, but then she shrugs with a theatrical sigh.

“ _Tashrab_ _ûzdin_ _uh_ _,_ ” she grumbles under her breath and resumes her work, and Thorin chuckles, while Bilbo decides to steer clear in case his face actually explodes from the blush.

The rest of the day is spent in much the same manner – the rain shows no intention of stopping, and Bilbo is forced to juggle the need to concentrate on coming up with at least some activities for the boys, and the urge to drag Thorin out of whatever room they're currently in, and... well.

But the opportunities for that continue to be virtually nonexistent. Fili demands to spend the morning trying to take photos of raindrops on the windows, which Thorin ends up assisting with, and Kili needs to be stopped from sneaking out and running around on the veranda, as he seems to think it's essential that he gets wet whenever the opportunity arises.

Then after lunch, Bilbo hopes they might spend a quiet thirty minutes at least, drawing and reading, and he might get the chance to escape, but Thorin gets a call that has him pacing back and forth in the hallway until Fili decides he wants to play cards. Then it's a round of Carcassone the board game on the floor in the living room, which has, much to Bilbo's chagrin, Deidre sitting between him and Thorin for almost an hour, filled to the brim with stolen glances and grins and laughter, and not. One. Single. Touch. Bilbo has looming existential crises to worry about, and yet the only thing that occupies his mind is trying to roll the dice properly so that it ends up on Thorin's end of the game board and he has to hand it back to him.

He feels like a teenager for that one blissful day, lovesick to an absolutely ridiculous degree, chipper and careless because of it, and his brain, swimming in a concoction of all those emotions, doesn't allow for much rational thinking. That's why, when Kili comes up with the excellent idea to play hide and seek, all he can think about is finding the best, most secluded spot that Thorin and him could hide in together, preferably somewhat cramped.

Kili counts to fifty, painstakingly and loudly, and Fili dashes away swiftly, Tom and Bert the bodyguards, who have been asked to join in simply so that the Prince would have more people to search for, disappearing also, and before Bilbo can figure out where to go, Thorin stands so close to him it almost takes his breath away, and declares very solemnly: “Follow me.”

Bilbo looks at him in an almost boyish excitement, and Thorin maintains his serious facade for about two and a half seconds, before a broad smile spreads over his face, and he gestures towards the staircase.

“I've figured out a place without cameras,” he says when they ascend it, and Bilbo freezes on the spot, his mouth very probably hanging open.

Thorin looks back at him over his shoulder and falters.

“Do you not want to...”

“No, no, I'm just...”

“ _Bunzunser!_ ”

That's Kili from downstairs, and somehow, it makes them both laugh, eyes widening.

“Come on,” Thorin says simply, and Bilbo follows, of course he does.

“Where are we going?” he hisses as they trot ahead.

“The attic,” Thorin replies, and Bilbo's heart leaps in his chest.

The staircase leading up there is near to the boys' bedroom, behind an innocent-looking door, but they don't even make it up there – they laugh quietly and a bit breathlessly when they close the door behind them, and Bilbo remarks: “No cameras here either, I think.”, and a different sort of gleam flashes in Thorin's eyes before he replies: “That's true.”, and Bilbo's arms reach to meet him halfway.

 _This_ kiss is definitely tinged with hunger, demanding and also sloppier, but in all the very best ways. Bilbo stumbles backwards until his back hits the door, his breath escaping him in a half-gasp, half-laugh, his arms fumbling for support on Thorin's back and shoulders. The King seems to have a thing for his hips, because his hands settle there once again, and then as they slide to Bilbo's back, he's glad he's wearing one of his softest loose cardigans, because Thorin's fingers brush under it effortlessly, and Bilbo all but shivers when they find bare skin. God bless old short t-shirts.

His mind is brilliantly blank from then on, and if there is a reason why he shouldn't tangle his fingers into Thorin's hair and tug him closer, _closer,_ he fails to see it. He produces a desperate mewl when Thorin's hand rides up his spine, taking the fabric of his clothes with it, and the King breaks the kiss, though their lips can't really be parted further than about an inch. Bilbo chuckles when he realizes that Thorin is probably being... considerate, and thinking that Bilbo's uncomfortable, or some such nonsense, and so he rests his hands on his shoulders, thumbs stroking the small, soft patch of skin behind his ears, and he murmurs: “No stopping now.”

He can't see the smile, because it's utterly dark save for the thin stripe of light coming through from under the door, but he feels it against his lips, and this time, he savors it, trying to come up with some apt hyperbole that would best describe the taste, but really, it's just overwhelming warmth, and softness, and a hint of something sweet he now knows he will never have enough of, all framed by the electrifying sensation of Thorin's beard scratching gently...

His first reaction to the strange buzz somewhere down below is actually a soft moan, his lips slacking, but before long, it becomes unceasing, and they both realize it's Thorin's phone ringing quietly in his pocket.

“Don't,” Bilbo breathes out, daring to nibble at Thorin's lip, and his response is a gasped: “I'm not planning on it.”

But eventually, the ringing is persistent enough to steal away some of the steady rhythm of their kissing, and Bilbo rests his forehead on Thorin's chest with a shaky, displeased sigh as the King fumbles for the device.

“ _Ai,_ ” he exhales raggedly, his arm around Bilbo's waist as he tugs him closer.

“ _Mimsalab_ _... kulhu?_ _Kulhûn_ _?”_

His hold loosens, and Bilbo grunts unhappily, but understands, forcing himself to step back, though he's reluctant to let go completely, his hand resting on Thorin's arm.

“ _Ma shândi_ _. ...Bundushar?_ _Kulhuda_ _?_ ”

An entirely different shiver dances up Bilbo's spine at the mention of the name, and moves away dazedly when Thorin reaches for the doorknob. The light is almost blinding when they stumble back into the hallway, despite the fact that it's still raining and dark is swiftly approaching. Thorin doesn't move from Bilbo's side, but his face contorts in more and more confusion, his brow furrowing – the person on the other side of the line evidently has a lot to say, and Thorin only ever interrupts with a one-word question, his hand starting out on Bilbo's shoulder and slowly sliding off.

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

That's Kili, dashing into the hallway, all red cheeks and tousled hair, and right after he reins in the nasty shock his heart suffers, Bilbo hurries to shush him.

“You can't just be standing out here!” the Prince complains, quieter now, “you're ruining the game!”

Bilbo opens his mouth, trying to come up with a suitable reply, but Thorin appears at his side then, saying: “ _Birashagimi, akhûnith._ I got an important call in the middle of trying to hide, you see.”

Kili hmph's, and Bilbo tries to seek an explanation in Thorin's face, but all he receives is an almost imperceptible head shake.

“Well then, have you found everyone else?” Bilbo asks, even though his mouth is dry, and he's sure he must look rather... disheveled, but he's counting on Kili not bothering with that overmuch.

“Just Fili's left,” the boy declares, “but it's too hard! He's too good.”

“Oh, you shouldn't let him think that for too long,” Bilbo chuckles, and marvels silently at his ability to act somewhat normally even though his skin is still tingling, and the sound of his own heartbeat is almost deafening.

“Go on then,” he says, “go search for him – I'll come help you, we'll be down in a minute.”

Kili frowns, but then he sighs profoundly, spins on his heel and hurries away, not failing to remind them loudly: “But you both lose this round!” before he disappears around the corner.

Bilbo turns to Thorin.

“Everything alright?”

The King blinks at him as if he's forgotten that he's even there.

“I'm not... that was the Police President,” he says, “I need to...”

“Oh... oh. No, yes, go.”

“Bilbo, I...”

“It's fine,” Bilbo smiles, even though his chest is threatening to burst at something as small as Thorin using his name again, “really. I just hope it's not bad news...?”

The King stares at him for a moment, and Bilbo is beginning to get more than a little worried.

“It's... impossible news,” Thorin offers then, entirely too quietly, and Bilbo tries to follow him as he strides down the hallway, he really does, but the warning bells that have been rendered useless by all the wonderful things happening all day, go off in his head once again, and he's suddenly a bit terrified to even move from the spot. _Impossible news._

Oh, how he wishes one game of hide and seek is the only thing he's managed to ruin.

* * *

** Dictionary: **

_Ablugùvôn_ \- Pancakes, but different from the american kind (based on a czech thing, sorry)

_Adad_ \- Father

_Birashagimi_ \- Sorry

_Bunzunser!_ \- I’m going!

_Khajimu!_ \- Gimme!

_Kikhùgir ghelekh -_ Something smells good

_Kulhuda_ \- Why

_Mimsalab_ \- Nonsense

_Sigamtêk_ \- Impatient

_Tashrab ûzdinuh -_ I’ll be damned

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I went and did it. Totally forsook all plot to push the bagginshield point across, heh. Funny story, that kiss in/below the attic was actually supposed to be their very first kiss up until the latest drafts. So long ago now wow. Anyway, here we are, the fluff is upon us, I leave it to you to speculate for how long. I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for all your wonderful, WONDERFUL support, I'm overwhelmed every single day, to be honest :')  
> Also, if you have trouble imagining the characters, [Ewe](http://ewebean.tumblr.com) drew [these](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/74796492791/drew-some-character-sheets-for-this-wonderful) wonderful character sheets, that really beautiful and just spot on!


	16. Chapter 16

“Good news.”

The immense suspicion that surges through Bilbo's whole body as an almost physical wave of nausea when these are Gandalf's very first words, speaks volumes to the change he's been through. Distrust and doubt seem to be his default settings these days.

“Oh?” he mumbles dryly, making sure Fili and Kili are tossing their clothes into their duffel bags, rather than at each other, and striding out of the room to take the call in the hallway.

“I promised I would fill you in eventually.”

“You also promised there'd be no foul play involved, and that it wouldn't be raining in Erebor the first time we set down,” Bilbo utters humorlessly, “you'll have to forgive me if I remain skeptical.”

“Are you alright?” Gandalf asks, all genuine curiosity, and Bilbo very seriously ponders tossing the phone out of the window, calculating just how much pleasure the sound of it cracking on the terracotta tiles of the walkway down below would bring him.

_It's been about fifteen hours since I last saw Thorin,_ he wants to hiss, _and I shouldn't be keeping count, and I shouldn't be as upset as I am. Also, my life is on a downward spiral, and the fact that it is in danger, factors in that only very little. So, you know. 'Alright' is not the word I'd use._

“Fine,” he groans instead, “what's the good news?”

“Thrain, Thorin's father,” Gandalf says, and Bilbo freezes, “we've figured out Bundushar's plan. All you need to know is that the closing ceremony of the Peace celebrations was supposed to be the D day.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Bilbo sighs, marveling at his ability to feel... absolutely nothing, “do you want me to go guerilla and stop it?”

“Don't be silly,” Gandalf chuckles, “up to this point, the Ereborean Secret Services had not been notified – it was all strictly a matter of international politics, there were some issues with Switzerland, even Italy, briefly; I will not bore you with the details. Anyway, we couldn't notify this country's forces until we were absolutely certain that we had a full grasp on the situation.”

“Which... you do now?”

“Yes. The official story is very touching, you'll learn it from the news soon enough, I'm sure. The point of it all is that Bundushar was carefully left out of the picture, for now. Gives him a false sense of security. We stole his best leeway – that is Thrain – from under his nose right before he was going to make his big move, but he will walk away unscathed. Not for long.”

“Alright, so... let me get this straight,” Bilbo says, rubbing his forehead and feeling a headache coming, “you... have Thorin's father. Who is, in fact, alive. And... the country will learn? When? Does Thorin know?”

“I imagine so, yes,” Gandalf says calmly, as if Bilbo's stomach lurching violently doesn't upset him in the slightest, “he does now. He will be the one to reveal his existence to the nation, after all. You see, Bundushar was going to use the closing ceremony on Sunday to his benefit, but instead we've turned it around so that it's all about the Crown, just as it should be. Just imagine it! The King's father, alive! A carefully controlled media shock, not so carefully controlled public uproar. Lots of pressure on all sides. It'll be wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo repeats weakly.

“Come now, it gives you one less thing to worry about.”

“Does that mean I'm out?” Bilbo peeps, not daring to harbor even a little hope, “I can retire to Provence and never hear of all this again?”

“A charming plan, but no,” Gandalf replies simply, “after you return to the Palace, I imagine the whole place will be upside down. The lead up to the elections will be a painstakingly orchestrated chain of events, and you will have your part to play in them, if we're ever to bring the Bundushar down.”

“Oh, _Gandalf,_ ” Bilbo grumbles raggedly.

“Hush, you'll be fine.”

“You're saying that as if it's something you can guarantee.”

“Of course I can guarantee it. But it requires your co-operation.”

“Yes, good job on making me feel like I have any say in this at all.”

At that point, a series of loud noises and even louder shouts from the inside of the Princes' room announces that the packing isn't exactly going according to plan, and Bilbo says quickly: “I really do have to go now, Gandalf.”

“I understand,” the man replies cheerfully, “we'll speak in person soon. Stay safe! Only answer calls from me or Bard, remember!”

“Yes, yes, alright, _goodbye,_ ” Bilbo hisses, and finally, finally hangs up.

It's all very definitely larger than life, he decides after he finds out that the ruckus was caused by the boys launching into an improvised fight, using the coat hangers from their wardrobe as swords. Thorin had disappeared almost immediately last evening after their... game of hide and seek had been interrupted by the phone call – he left the house shortly after, before Bilbo could find out what was going on, and hasn't come back yet, leaving Bilbo worried to death about the nature of the call. _Impossible news._ Bilbo shudders when he thinks about the King learning about his father over the phone. Or from the police, or whoever – it doesn't matter. Bilbo finds that nothing else really matters – he's worried sick about how Thorin will take it, how it will affect him. He can't even fathom what that particular shock must feel like. He just really, really needs to make sure Thorin is still in one piece, as soon as possible...

Finding out more seems to be impossible, however, because Dwalin has gone with the King, of course, and no one else at the house seems to know anything. But the Head of Security appears out of the blue in the afternoon, looking even more grim than usual, and orders the Princes and Bilbo to get ready to leave immediately.

“But we weren't supposed to go until tomorrow,” Bilbo remarks as the boys complain.

“Change of plans,” Dwalin utters curtly, “make it quick.”

The front yard is now very crowded, what with the four black cars, all extremely menacing, waiting to take them away from here – Bilbo suddenly feels quite nervous, and more than a little sad. _What were you hoping for?,_ his more practical side chimes in, _that you'd get to spend one last lovely evening with_ _Thorin before everything would go south? Naivete doesn't suit you._

“Is everything alright?” he tries after he lets Deidre steer the boys upstairs to get their luggage, and Dwalin frowns even more.

“No,” he replies without much ado.

“...I see.”

“You're driving with me, I'll tell you everything on the road.”

“Oh... oh. Does it have to do with...?” Bilbo offers somewhat foolishly, and Dwalin takes his eyes off the house, his scrutinizing look never faltering, as if he's now simply inspecting Bilbo's structural weaknesses, instead of those of the building.

“No,” he sighs at last, “that is the least of all our worries, believe me.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, but shuts it again wisely – he can't be sure the words that'd come out would be too sensible. The boys come rushing out of the house then, their bodyguards hauling their suitcases and Deidre carrying the box with a rather displeased Muzmith inside, and Bilbo's heart is suddenly fluttering rather unpleasantly.

“Can we come here again?” Kili asks, and Deidre ruffles his hair, while Bilbo tries not to let his shoulders slump from all the unexpected and unwelcome blues that are overcoming him.

“Still need to learn how to hunt,” Beorn remarks, coming to stand by Deidre's side, and Fili pfft's, while Kili affirms that enthusiastically.

“We could spend Christmas here!”

“I want to come here for my birthday, January!”

“Alright, I'm sure we'll figure something out,” Bilbo smiles softly, “now off you go, into the car.”

“ _Shamukh,_ Beorn!” Kili exclaims obediently, and the man goes to shake his hand, but surprises him by hauling him off his feet when he least expects it, laughing as the boy squeaks, equal parts startled and exhilarated.

“Take care, _u_ _zb_ _a_ _dîth_ _,_ ” he says, “be nice to your brother.”

“Right,” Fili laughs, receiving a powerful pat on the shoulder from Beorn once Kili is safely on the ground again.

Bilbo watches them climb into the car, quite dazed until Beorn pats his shoulder as well, almost knocking him off his feet.

“It was a pleasure,” the man grins, “I do hope we'll be seeing each other again.”

Bilbo blushes, because that wink was by no means accidental, and composes himself enough to reply: “ _Gaubdûkhimâ_ _._ Erm... thank you. For your hospitality. ...Deidre, you're not coming?”

“Of course I am,” the old maid smiles, “I'll be home later today, after... I'm done here.”

_That_ look she exchanged with Beorn _also_ wasn't by any means accidental, but Bilbo lacks the mental capacity to decrypt it.

“...Have fun, I suppose,” he says feebly, and she and Beorn both laugh heartily.

“I will, I will. I'll see you soon.”

“Come on.”

That's Dwalin, ushering Bilbo on, and so he grabs his satchel and goes. He spares one last look at the house, long stripes of sharp, golden afternoon sunlight slinking through in between the trees and somehow making the dark walls, the windows, even the rose bushes, look almost too crisp to be true. It's all starting to feel too much like a dream already. The second Dwalin closes the car door after him, Bilbo feels a cold that has nothing to do with the coming autumn, or his foolish lack of a cardigan – he feels like the past... what? almost three weeks? happened in borrowed time, time that he was never supposed to get. Nor did he particularly deserve it. He thinks of the impossibly carefree happiness, of all the card games and the books he's read, and Kili's numerous new drawings that are waiting in his binder to be hung in his room back at the Palace, and Fili's piles upon piles of photographs – virtually hundreds of pictures of flowers, and bugs, and the kitten, and raindrops... He thinks of Thorin sitting in that big armchair in the living room, immersed in his work while his nephews watched this or that movie, can _see him_ so clearly when he closes his eyes, the way he smiled those little smiles any time Fili or Kili giggled or joked... He thinks of blueberry muffins, and the cold of the kitchen counter pressing against his back, only a very minor discomfort thanks to the warmth pooling in his belly and his chest as Thorin held him... He remembers it all, and yet, listening to the gravel of the driveway crunch under the car's wheels, he almost stops believing any of it was real.

He stares at the beautiful, rich greens of the forest, trees dashing past as the car speeds down the narrow road, second in a line of four, the third carrying the Princes, and the first and last ensuring safety, and he feels small, and weak, and undeserving.

“Do you still have your gun?” 

Well, at least Dwalin certainly knows how to make him pay attention.

“Y-yes, why?” Bilbo peeps, his hands clasping over the bulk of it in his leather satchel.

“I wasn't kidding when I told you I'd require you to carry it with you from now on,” the Head of Security says simply, “also, expect more shooting lessons at an actual range when we're back home.”

“Lovely,” Bilbo mutters.

“No complaining – the Princes will have a security detail with them at all times, at least until the elections are over, but you will still be spending most of your time with them. You need to be ready.”

“Mhm,” Bilbo whimpers, curling up on himself, wishing he'd taken that painkiller in the morning – his temples really are starting to throb rather unpleasantly.

“Here's the deal,” Dwalin declares, his eyes in the rear-view mirror glancing at Bilbo briefly, as if he's a bit unsure how to continue, “and you must understand this is strictly between you and me. I advised against it, but Thorin wanted you to know.”

Bilbo straightens up a little bit.

“Is he alright?” he asks, then, blushing, his eyes darting away, “I mean...”

“He's fine,” Dwalin says, “he got some... shocking news.”

“About his father,” Bilbo blurts out – he's not sure why, but he simply knows he couldn't act _that_ surprised even if he tried.

“And you know that _how_ exactly?” Dwalin demands slowly, his voice suddenly gaining volumes of of suspicion.

“Ah, well, Gandalf... Doctor Grey told me, he, he called me in the morning and I... well, I wanted to know if Thorin was alright, because he'd just disappeared suddenly last night, and I...”

Dwalin groans, muttering something in Khuzdul, no doubt a rather flowery curse.

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo peeps.

“Not your fault,” Dwalin grumbles, “Doctor Grey and I are going to have to have a talk about compromising security.”

_You and I are going to have to have a talk about your screening process for glorified nannies._

“How much did he tell you?”

“Hm?” Bilbo mumbles, the momentary memory sapping him of all concentration, “oh. Oh, not much. Just that... Thorin's father had been found alive? And to keep my mouth shut?”

Well, way to sum up the last two weeks' worth of mind-numbing anxiety.

“It's true,” Dwalin offers dryly, as if he's somehow displeased with the idea.

“How... I mean, how is that even possible?” Bilbo asks the same questions everyone else has refused to answer up to now, “I thought he died in the revolution...?”

“So did we all,” Dwalin retorts, “we're not sure it's really him, yet.”

“But if it is...?”

“Grey seems to think so. Anyway, that's not important for you,” the Head of Security supplies, his look now piercing, if short, making sure that Bilbo is paying attention, “we need you to keep the Princes out of this. Nothing is certain for the time being, and if that man's identity is confirmed, there will be a whole great big media circus around it. Well, there will be one either way – Bard Ibindikhel knows already. You just make sure the Princes don't learn before they need to, and that everything goes smoothly on this end. Take care of them, that's all we need.”

“I understand,” Bilbo nods, even though he feels like his chest, his shoulders, are straining under some invisible weight yet again.

“And one more thing.”

“...Yes?”

“Thorin is... He's not taking this very well,” Dwalin says gruffly, glancing at Bilbo yet again, as if he's expecting him to draw his own conclusions.

“Understandably,” he tries.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't...-”

“Oh, right, oh no,” Bilbo cuts him off before he can finish that sentence – he's almost certain he couldn't bear hearing the end of it.

“I'll, I'll... keep my distance,” he says, his voice betraying him, sounding much less firm than he'd fancy, “I wouldn't want to cause any trouble.”

Oh, _far too late_ for that.

Dwalin harrumphs and turns his attention fully to the road ahead, and Bilbo's shoulders slump, and he rests his temple against the window. Suddenly, inexplicably, he feels a bit like crying, and _that's_ certainly too ridiculous an idea to even entertain. Did he really think any part of... this would go at all smoothly? For all intents and purposes, he should be glad he's still alive.

The rest of the ride is more or less silent, except for Dwalin reminding him that he's obligated to take part in this or that security briefing regarding the whole... accident, at some point, and Bilbo thinks of that night again, when the lights suddenly went out in the whole Palace, and it's like he's reading the memory like a story from a book – it's like that Bilbo wasn't really him. There's been some talk of assigning a professional to the Princes, who would talk to them about the attack, but Bilbo dismissed that as soon as he was consulted about it. Both Fili and Kili seem largely unaffected by the whole thing, almost miraculously so. Oh, if anyone will be needing professional help any time soon, it'll be Bilbo himself.

Upon entering the capital, Bilbo begins to realize that returning to the Palace might not be so bad after all, and his musings are confirmed when he's immediately swept off his feet by all the duties waiting for him. Thorin is away, and Bilbo doesn't even have the time to worry – once he makes sure the boys are unpacking, he is steered away by Balin and filled in on the goings-on at the _Hurmulkezer_ during the past weeks. Life at the Palace has been going on as usual of course, and it's admirable, really – nothing seems out of the ordinary, except for perhaps the guards marching in the hallways in greater numbers, looking definitely more determined and alert, if that's even possible. All the important codes have changed, as has Bilbo's schedule and e-mail address (still flooded by dozens of messages, though), and he feels a bit like that very first day he came here, a bit lost and a bit frantic.

He doesn't even get to see his apartment, that's how busy he is – and after putting the boys to sleep, which is his first blissful moment of relative calm despite their complaints about missing the summer mansion already, he goes to the staff building instead of into his room, because apparently there's a little get-together going on, and he realizes just how much he's missed all his friends and colleagues. They greet him as if he's returning from war, and there are drinks and food, and everybody looks so cheerful that Bilbo forgets his troubles for that one fleeting moment.

“Alright, what are we celebrating?” he grins.

“Besides your survival?” Bombur laughs, “we thought we'd never see you again!”

“Oh, nonsense,” Bilbo chuckles, sinking into the nearest armchair, “I _survived_ quite fine, I think.”

“Didn't you get bored?” Bofur remarks, handing him a bottle of beer, “we thought it was all very _Abanaz M_ _elhekhînh_ _._ ”

“What – oh, the fairy tale?” Bilbo frowns, proud that he understood and remembered.

“Yeah! You know, what with the Princess locked up in that castle far away, haunted by the ghosts of the two little kids and the old King...”

“Oh, they didn't _haunt me_ ,” Bilbo laughs, “well, at least not... not daily...”

They all laugh, and Bilbo watches their faces, so devoid of any worry, and thinks he might believe himself at peace among them, for a little while at least.

“So no surprises?” Bofur continues with the teasing tone, “no wandering the gardens and getting lost in dark corridors?”

_The door slamming shut as Bilbo backed up against it, the heavy warmth of Thorin's chest against his knocking all air out of his lungs, but only feeding his longing, his hands scrambling over that impossible width of Thorin's shoulders in search of both support and more closeness, the lack of light a perfect setting for something so fleeting and yet so intense..._

“Not at all, I'm afraid,” Bilbo mumbles, shuffling in the armchair, crossing his legs and taking a long, thorough swig from his bottle.

Bombur's wife mutters something to her husband, who huffs a laugh, and Bilbo, feeling the blush creeping into his cheeks, says: “But don't mind all that! What happened here while I was gone?”

“Oh, it was crazy,” Bofur explains, “the press practically camped here, and His Majesty kept giving one interview after another. The security's been heightened, but you saw that already. A couple of events, parties and such, were canceled, and you'd think that'd mean less work for us, but you'd be wrong. All in all, you were better off in your haunted castle.”

“True,” Bombur nods, “but anyway, so that you're filled in completely, we didn't get together today _only_ to celebrate your homecoming.”

“Oh, good,” Bilbo grins, not adding that he doesn't really feel like it's worth celebrating all that much.

“Our uncle Bifur – you know, the one in the hospital? He's made some progress – started talking again three days ago,” Bofur adds.

“Oh, but that's wonderful!” Bilbo gasps, “wonderful news!”

The story was one told to him in bits and pieces over numerous evenings, reluctantly at first, and never in much detail, and he could certainly understand that – Bifur, Bofur and Bombur's only remaining family, has committed to a mental institution for the past... what?, two years? More? And the brothers weren't too keen on describing what exactly had happened to him, and Bilbo never asked. They'd seemed hopeful that he would improve, and, well, hope was sometimes the most precious article, as Bilbo himself had learned.

“They finally approved some new meds for him,” Bombur continues, “and they're saying that if he continues like this, he might actually be fit enough to go home one day...”

“Apparently his first question was 'when's the game?'” Bofur supplies cheerfully, “he's a big soccer fan, we would always watch the Sunday matches with him even when he was... you know.”

“I am so glad to hear this,” Bilbo smiles, “really, this is great news, and may I say, certainly a much better cause for celebration than me managing to survive in the wilderness.”

They toast to Bifur, and Bofur and Bombur offer a couple of childhood stories, and start planning on taking their uncle out to some sort of old family house, and Bilbo is content to just listen, only finishing his beer very slowly – it is only when their talk turns to the culminating Peace celebrations that he loses some of his calm.

“You should definitely try and find the time to go see the play at _Gabil-Dum_ on Saturday,” Bofur notes, “there's an old... oh, I don't know what to call it in English. _Abanm_ _agamîn_ _._ Like a...”

“Like an amphitheater?” Bilbo offers, “ancient stone seats, in a circle around the stage?”

“Yes, exactly like that. Very old. It's rarely used, and it's considered a great honor for whoever gets the chance to perform there.”

“That sounds amazing,” Bilbo smiles, “is that where the Sunday speech will be?”

“Oh, no no, that takes place in front of the building,” Bofur explains, “well, the King stands on the balcony above the entrance, and they open the gates and let people pour into the gardens. It hasn't been done in... well, years. It'll be quite something.”

“I'm sure,” Bilbo mumbles, and for some reason, thinks _open space._

_Lots of open space._ Isn't this how it always is in the movies, the important figure in the middle of their speech when a telling red dot appears in the middle of their chest? Oh, why the hell would he think about that now?! He chases the unfounded worries away by reaching for another beer, but he can't help but feel a little distracted still. _Not so carefully controlled public uproar,_ is what Gandalf said, or something to that effect. He looks over the faces of his friends, and wonders how they will process the news – well, there's news, and then there's other news. Surely the truth about Thorin's father coming to light will also somehow lead to the truth about Bilbo? The more rational side of him tries to tell him that there's no immediate connection there, but the part of him that still worries about Gandalf telling him he'll _have a part to play_ in all of this, is momentarily stronger. Correction: always stronger. 

He dislikes feeling like his fate is not in his own hands, and he dislikes feeling like he knows about one millionth of what's really going on, but most of all, he dislikes the loneliness that comes with all that – oh, how he'd like to tell his friends about the worries plaguing him. Tell them the truth and ask for advice, and actually receive some for once, instead of more vague assurances that Gandalf is always ready to offer... A saving grace of an idea comes to him after he excuses himself off to bed, and after he enters his little apartment, trying not to think too hard about how that packed suitcase by his wardrobe probably isn't there for the last time, he dials Fridda's number.

“Bilbo?!” she exclaims somewhat dazedly.

“Hello,” he mumbles, gazing into the faint orange glow of the lamps down below, pools of light in the darkness of the park, “I hope I didn't wake you.”

“No, no, you didn't... God, it's really good to hear your voice!”

“Yes, yours too,” Bilbo smiles, “how have you been?”

“Me? I'm fine, fine, but you... are you alright?”

“I'm... good,” Bilbo lies, then, hearing faint music in the background on Fridda's end, “gosh, am I interrupting you? I'll call you tomorrow-”

“No no no!” she exclaims, “you're not interrupting anything! Talk to me. You sound... down. I've been so worried about you!”

“I'm just... overwhelmed, I guess,” Bilbo mumbles, sitting down on the ground with his back to the bed, and dragging his knees up under his chin, feeling like a little kid, “I don't know how much you know of what's going on, I mean, did Bard...?”

“Oh, yes, he... he told me most of it. He and I are...”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, then grins shortly, “oh.”

“Yeah,” she titters, “listen, how about... how about we meet for a coffee? We both obviously have a lot to talk about.”

“That would be... _so_ wonderful,” Bilbo says earnestly, “though I'll have to check my schedule, everything is crazy here now, the security is so tight, you wouldn't believe... I just hope they'll let me leave at all.”

He means it lightly, but Fridda's voice is still tight with concern: “Oh my. I see. Well, if it's too much trouble, I mean with the weekend coming up, and everything...”

“No, no, I'll find my way out if I have to sneak out, you know,” Bilbo jokes much more vigorously than he's really feeling, “as soon as possible, I promise.”

He doesn't add _preferably before the_ _country learns about Thorin's father_ _, because after that, I can't really be sure if I'll ever be having any coffee ever again._

“Alright then,” she sighs, “just... be safe. I'll talk to you soon?”

“I'll call you,” Bilbo nods.

“Are you sure you don't want me to check in every couple of days, just to make sure you're still in one piece?”

“Hah, I hope that won't be necessary,” Bilbo chuckles, but it comes out a bit drier than he'd intended, “honestly though, I do want to see you soon. I'll find the time-”

A soft knock on the door cuts him off, and for some reason, sends a tingle up his spine.

“You do that,” Fridda says, “will I see you at the final speech on Sunday?”

“Yes, yes, I'll be there,” Bilbo says hastily, scrambling to his feet, “listen, I've got to go now...”

“Oh, okay then, bye bye-”

“Bye! Thank you!” Bilbo blurts out, ending the call and opening the door, a confused gasp escaping him when he sees that there's no one standing in the hallway.

But one look into it reveals Thorin, already marching away, and Bilbo's heart skips a beat, and he calls out, a bit shakily and trying to keep his voice down: “H-hey!”, incapable of thinking about anything better – using the King's name still feels somewhat off, for some reason. Fortunately, he stops, and Bilbo hurries after him, not quite sure what he'll do when he gets there, but determined to get there nevertheless.

Thorin looks a bit confused at first, as if he didn't really expect Bilbo to come, but then his shoulders slump, the relief almost visible, and Bilbo sees just how wrecked he looks, tired and almost vulnerable.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo sighs, resisting the urge to reach up and take his head in his hands.

“Did Dwalin...”

“He told me,” Bilbo nods, and Thorin exhales raggedly, his gaze darting away, and Bilbo is suddenly very aware that they're standing in the middle of a hallway, the soft buzz of the lights a quiet warning.

He reaches for Thorin's hand, valiantly, and when the King does look back at him, he squeezes gently, murmuring: “Come on.”

Thorin scrutinizes him for a bit, but then he manages a small smile, and follows, and really, if someone had told Bilbo a couple of months ago that he'd be leading the King into his room one day, hand in hand, he'd probably call them a lunatic.

Once inside, the door safely shut, he gets that feeling again, that the room is that much richer for Thorin's presence, like he's the one thing it's been missing all along, but his worry for him is stronger.

“May I?” the King sighs, gesturing vaguely to the armchair by the window, and when Bilbo nods, he sinks into it heavily, sighing and dragging his hands over his face.

“I'm sorry to... barge in on you like this,” he mumbles, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, “I shouldn't...”

“Oh, don't be silly,” Bilbo says simply, stepping closer and only faltering a little before he puts his hand on Thorin's shoulder.

The King seems to let his guard down even more at the touch, yet another pained sigh escaping him, one hand closing over Bilbo's briefly as he looks up at him, his eyes entirely too large and vulnerable – it takes Bilbo's breath away, just how much emotion Thorin's letting him see, and his fingers trail from his shoulder up his neck and to his cheek, his thumb stroking once, slowly.

“Are you alright?” he repeats, quietly.

“No idea,” Thorin replies faintly, “I... I don't think I've slept since that phone call.”

“Is your father really...?”

The King actually shudders, his head dropping once again, before he clenches his jaw, recomposing himself.

“I don't know. We can't be sure, he... When I saw him he was asleep. I couldn't tell, he was... he was so frail. White as a sheet. You'd think I'd be able to recognize my own father. They're doing DNA tests right now, and I... I just don't know. It's impossible.”

“How did they say he survived?” Bilbo asks, doing his best to keep his own voice as calm as possible, faced with Thorin's disturbed one, his hand now resting on the nape of the King's neck – he's not so sure he should be doing that, but Thorin doesn't protest, and Bilbo doesn't know how else to offer comfort, really.

“It's ridiculous,” Thorin almost scoffs, “apparently he's been in Switzerland this whole time. During the revolution, he... we had an escape plan – the Swiss were willing to grant us asylum if things went really bad, but it never came to that, and it's hard to believe that he'd... well. They say he's been in a coma. Ten years. He was shot, you know, killed in the riots, and his body was never... I went to his funeral, Bilbo.”

Bilbo shivers, that last sentence quiet and desperate, the King's gaze darting away, out of the window, his hands gripping the armrests.

“The coffin was empty, and there was a flag and his photo, nothing more,” Thorin continues lifelessly, “and I remember thinking that maybe he'd... I certainly could have used his input in the past decade, you know,” he finishes with a short, dry chuckle, his voice breaking, and he buries his head in his hands yet again, breathing through his nose, deep and sharp, and Bilbo is utterly clueless, his hand on Thorin's back suddenly too small and pointless.

He startles when the King groans, brushing his hands over his face one last time.

“I'm sorry,” he says slowly, “I just... I don't know what to do.”

“Understandably,” Bilbo peeps, suddenly recalling his previous conversation with Dwalin for some reason.

“I wish could... I wish I knew how to help you,” he sighs, and to his immense surprise, Thorin smiles at that, if somberly.

“And I wish I could have warned you about this,” he offers, “I'm so sorry the contract didn't include any of this. You could probably sue the Crown for 'unexpected complications' and win a whole lot of money, too.”

“No, I'm too fond of you – all this, to sue you for making my life a bit more exciting,” Bilbo babbles earnestly, and thinks, _well, that sentence is so twisted it could be a corkscrew._

But he has very little time to question his rhetorical skills, or the irony of it all, because Thorin's smile broadens, and his arm slinks around Bilbo's hip, and suddenly there's very little else to do than to lean in, both his hands on the King's shoulders (oh, his favorite shoulders in the whole wide world already). The kiss has him bending at quite an awkward angle, but he figures out a solution quickly, one knee on the armrest, and it allows him to lean in even closer, his fingers in Thorin's beard yet again (he suspects he won't be able to help himself in that aspect any time soon), and he's relieved to feel the King relaxing a little bit. He needs to help that along as best he can, and so he takes initiative, kissing the corner of Thorin's mouth, his cheek, the soft skin furrowed by his crow's feet, slowly and gingerly, his hold on the King's jaw tender, but firm. All he wants is for that breathing to calm down, for that smile to return, and after he plants one last kiss to Thorin's lips, he looks into his eyes, opting for his gentlest smile and murmuring: “It'll be alright.”

He's become an _outstanding_ liar.

Thorin's smile never fades, and he hangs his head, Bilbo's hand in his hair now, soothing, and he thinks, _it's been what? Three days? You've come from blueberry cupcakes and snogging in the dark to plot twists straight out of EastEnders, and here you are, an emotional crutch for Thorin, when in fact you can't be sure you'll last very long yourself. In three days. Where on earth will you be a week from now?_

“If he's really... who they say he is,” Thorin murmurs as Bilbo readjusts, shuffling for a better position on the armrest, sitting on it sideways so that he can keep one arm around Thorin's shoulders, “they tell me his existence will have to be revealed as soon as possible...”

Bilbo listens to his account of the media furore that is sure to come, watching the sharp lines of his nose and the glint of his eyes even in the relative darkness of the room (he hasn't bothered to switch on any lights besides the small lamp on his nightstand, and he wonders, a bit foolishly, if he'll ever get the opportunity to get close to Thorin in actual daylight). The fact that Thorin trusts him so much already, that he actually came all the way to his room because he needed support, and believed that Bilbo would offer it, is the most terrifying notion, and Bilbo knows that the panic over that will smack him over the head at the least convenient moment. This is all progressing too fast, and somehow, he knows that there will not be a moment of peace, not anymore, in any of it. He really was right when he'd predicted that the end of their stay at the family retreat would also mark the end of any illusion of calm.

At some points, he almost believes that the rest of his troubles will resolve themselves somehow, now that Thorin knows about his father, and Bilbo doesn't have to lie to him... quite as much – but then the mind-numbing fear snaps back into place. His hip brushes at Thorin's side as he practically sits in his lap, and he realizes that he has so much more than he'd ever dared hope for, and yet he knows he can't enjoy that with a clear conscience. Come to think of it, he can't really do anything much with a clear conscience.

The wise thing to do would be to keep his distance from Thorin, at least. Not make this worse than it already is by... by increasing the amount of things both of them will inevitably hurt over when push comes to shove. _I will miss you,_ he wants to tell Thorin, _I'm being selfish, and I shouldn't be anywhere near you, but I can't help myself, I've never been to good at doing what's right when it's due._

“...Wait, what does Bundushar have to do with all this?” he blurts out when the mention of the ominously familiar name disrupts his train of thought.

“Oh, apparently nothing,” Thorin grumbles, waving it off as if swatting a fly, “the police have discovered some connection between him, the Moria Conglomerate and the Swiss, and they were toying briefly with the idea that he could have known about... about my father, but Grey's people think it's just a coincidence. It's all too far-fetched to believe, anyway, and I'm dreading what will become of the elections, what with all this new information. Ibindikhel is confident that the media blowout can be handled...-”

“You should go to sleep.”

“Hm?” Thorin blinks up at him, and Bilbo smiles, repeating gently, “go to sleep. You look absolutely haggard, and the country won't collapse overnight.”

Thorin scrutinizes him almost suspiciously for a moment (but then again maybe it's just Bilbo's overactive paranoia), before he sighs: “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Bilbo chuckles, “and if it does, better to handle it with a clear head, don't you think? Come on.”

No matter how much he wants to stay right where he is, for as long as possible, he stands up, beckoning the King to do the same. Thorin gets up rather reluctantly, and refuses to move much when they find themselves only inches apart.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks almost sheepishly, and Bilbo is overwhelmed by fondness then, very much inclined to agree immediately.

“Would that be wise?” he notes instead, smiling almost apologetically, and Thorin sighs wistfully.

“Certainly not.”

“I would love to,” Bilbo says tenderly, closing what little distance there still is between them and putting his hand on Thorin's arm, “but...”

“Yes?” the King cocks an eyebrow after a moment of Bilbo's somewhat distracted silence, wherein he is more interested by how Thorin's arm feels under his fingers, than the dangers of... of breaching protocol, or whatever you might call it.

“You need... sleep. You need sleep,” Bilbo manages lamely, clearing his throat and looking into Thorin's eyes infinitely more decisively than he's actually feeling.

The King chuckles, which is certainly not helping the situation.

“So, what you're implying is, I... wouldn't be getting much sleep if I let you accompany me?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to offer a swift rebuttal, but naturally, all that comes out is a feeble, high-pitched 'Hm.', and his cheeks heat up immediately.

“Honestly, though,” he offers a bit breathlessly, and Thorin smiles, mumbling 'I know.', and, well, one more kiss certainly doesn't have the power to make a country collapse... does it?

“You know,” he breathes out when they part, ducking his head and speaking to Thorin's silver tie pin, “some think I should... I should be keeping my distance.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.”

_Including the more sensible part of me, but all of that be damned, because right now you smell too good._

“I've been told the same thing.”

“Oh... really?” Bilbo looks up at Thorin, more than a little surprised, and back gaze tired, but calm eyes.

“Really,” the King nods, his large hands resting just above Bilbo's waist the steering force of the dialogue, as far as he's concerned.

“...And?”

“And I haven't slept in almost two days, so I might have dozed off at that part of the sermon.”

Bilbo pfft's and when Thorin raises his eyebrows, he says: “Oh, nothing, nothing, I just imagined Dwalin in a priest's gown giving an actual sermon. ...Maybe we should both get some sleep.”

But Thorin is measuring him with entirely too much fondness in his eyes, and Bilbo soon finds that he's simply staring back sort of dazedly.

“I wish I could tell you that we'll talk about this soon...” Thorin starts, and Bilbo jumps in quickly: “No, no, that's fine. This is... this should be the least of your worries now. Go to sleep, concentrate on, you know, the important things. Don't mind me.”

“Don't _mind_ you?” Thorin repeats incredulously, as if he can't quite believe that Bilbo would ever be so preposterous, “I wish I were able to just decide on that.”

“You know what I mean...”

“I do.”

And, alright, resisting Thorin's kisses is a skill Bilbo never hopes to acquire – in fact, he goes a bit limp in his arms, reveling in how gloriously blank his mind goes each time that beard scrapes against his skin.

“Sleep,” he sighs shakily afterward, patting Thorin's chest lightly, “now. Go.”

Thorin produces some sort of horribly attractive displeased vocalization, but lets Bilbo take him by the hand and lead him to the door.

“I'll be in meetings all day tomorrow,” he offers, standing in the doorway, his hand still refusing to let go of Bilbo's.

“Alright,” Bilbo says in what he hopes is a casual, not disappointed tone, “I'll have to make sure the boys are actually attending their lessons, they don't seem too keen on any of it...”

Thorin smiles that soft smile he reserves for whenever his nephews are mentioned, but then he rubs his forehead, adding: “I'll be going back to the hospital in the evening for...”

“Right,” Bilbo nods, squeezing his hand gently, “it'll be... fine.”

“Could I...?” Thorin says vaguely, and it takes Bilbo a moment to understand what he's actually trying to ask.

_Could I come here again tomorrow, and be all tall and imposing and warm, and render you incapable of worrying about much else than how my lips feel on yours?_

“Yes,” he replies quite bluntly, “if you find the time, I mean...”

“I'll find the time,” Thorin declares simply.

“A-alright then. Good night... I suppose?”

“Good night,” Thorin smiles.

“When... when do you have to be up?” Bilbo asks, not entirely sure why – perhaps it's the complete reluctance to let Thorin walk away, despite all of Bilbo's own big responsible phrases.

“At seven... no, six thirty.”

“Oh, good god. Go to sleep. Go, go!”

“I'll... see you soon.”

“You will, you will, now go!”

Bilbo doesn't even have the time to take a look around to see if a guard hasn't by some inconvenient accident chosen this particular hallway to walk into right now, before Thorin seals their lips in one last kiss, quick, but surprisingly searing hot, and he's left standing on rather unsure legs when it's over, exhaling raggedly, and Thorin doesn't say one more word, simply holds his gaze, and Bilbo hopes that whatever he's searching for in his eyes is actually there. And then he's gone, striding away, and Bilbo only closes the door when he disappears around the corner, and leans on the wall for support for a moment, thinking of horrible life-altering catastrophes, and just how many of those are cleverly concealed as excellent kisses.

 

Speaking of life-altering catastrophes, Gandalf gives him about five hours of what's shaping up to be an unusually peaceful Friday, before contacting him, calling when Bilbo is marching from the stables back to the Palace, hoping that the boys will get through their horse-riding lessons without causing a ruckus – they're both largely unwilling to get back into the old grooves, the responsibilities and tasks asked of them now feeling like a nuisance after having had such an... eventful second part of their summer holidays. Bilbo's already preparing himself for the complaining come Monday, when they both return to school. He's striding down the familiar walkway that leads through the park, making his walk back to the Palace a bit longer, as he wants to enjoy the pleasantly warm, sunny day as best he can, when his phone rings. The sound is now irredeemably interconnected with the part of his brain that switches on his anxiety – he hasn't gotten a nice call in such a long time.

“Gandalf,” he sighs.

“Good afternoon!” the man greets him, and Bilbo wonders if maybe, Gandalf had witnessed some unspeakable horrors in his past, that made something inside him snap and be always so disgustingly chipper, even in situations that definitely don't call for it.

“What can I do for you?” he utters dryly, “some light clandestine work before dinner? Maybe a bit of _investigative journalism_?”

“Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did you?” Gandalf chuckles.

“Yes, about six months ago. What do you want?”

“Can I speak freely?”

“When do you ever not?”

“Are you alone?”

Bilbo scans his surroundings lazily, and there's no one in sight, except for a groundskeeper pushing a wheelbarrow over by the gardens, definitely out of earshot. The birds are chirping happily, and a gentle breeze is ruffling the leaves of the oaks and chestnut trees, and Bilbo very sorely wishes to disappear into the park and never be found again.

“Unfortunately, I am,” he replies curtly.

“Hmm,” Gandalf muses, and Bilbo can _see_ him smirking, “remember how I told you I would be needing you to do something for us?”

“I wake up every day hoping I forgot overnight,” Bilbo retorts, “and who's 'us'?”

“Have you heard about the Abkhûz brothers' uncle, Bifur?” Gandalf says instead, ignoring Bilbo's questions as usual, and Bilbo frowns in confusion.

“What on earth does he have to do with anything?”

“He's a mental patient, and apparently there's been some progress in his condition, some say nearly miraculous.”

“Yes... yes, I've heard, but... Gandalf, this is the second mysterious man to appear out of nowhere and _m_ _iraculously_ get better in the span of, what?, a week? Is this like a recurring theme in Erebor?”

“I don't think it's a recurring theme anywhere,” Gandalf offers, and he doesn't sound particularly like he's joking, “what you need to know about Bifur Abkhûz, is that he's the only surviving witness of the Gundabad tragedy.”

“...The what?”

“The cave-in that took the lives of the Princess Dís and her husband three years ago.”

“Oh... oh?” Bilbo manages.

“Yes. Mister Abkhûz was a very experienced miner, and he was chosen to be one of the foremen at the newly opening mine. The day of the opening, he was supposed to go below ground with the others, but stayed behind at the last minute, which is what saved his life. Still, his injuries were extensive, and his mental health suffered greatly. He's been largely unresponsive... up until now.”

“That's... why are you telling me all this?” Bilbo peeps, a question he feels like he's been asking far too often lately.

“Before the tragedy, he'd always been a very vocal protestor against the Moria Conglomerate. He was one of the longest-standing employees of the Urs-tarâg United, the Princess' husband's company, and along with some others, they were convinced that the Moria Conglomerate wanted to get rid of their company by some less than savory means. Urs-tarâg United went under very quickly after the cave-in, you see. Anyway, we believe that he might have discovered something, some proof...”

“Proof of what?” Bilbo groans, marching quicker quite unwillingly, almost hoping to meet someone who would make him end the call and not have to listen to all of this anymore – the foul taste of yet more issues he shouldn't be getting himself into is rather nauseating.

“There are those who believe that the cave-in wasn't an accident,” Gandalf says simply, and Bilbo shudders, “and something tells me that Mister Abkhûz would agree with them.”

“Alright,” Bilbo sighs, “now comes the part where you tell me what _my_ part in all this is, and I'll ask you if I have a choice, and you'll say _'oh but of course, Bilbo, dear fellow!'_ , even though we'll both know you're lying.”

“You said it, not I,” Gandalf chuckles, and Bilbo kicks a pebble, sending it spiraling into one of the perfectly trimmed bushes lining the walkway.

“Get to the point.”

“As per a strict request of his nephews, Mister Abkhûz is staying in a private asylum, and any and all visits are firmly regulated. There was quite a nasty media uproar around both of them and their Uncle right after the accident, and now that he's getting better, they're obviously fearing the same, so they are paying for this high-end facility to ensure that his privacy will remain intact.”

Bilbo thinks of the cheerful brothers, Bombur's honest face and Bofur's always smiling one, and he can't quite imagine they're going through so much – he can't blame them for not confiding in him the entirety of the story, and indeed he just feels immensely sorry for them.

“We think Mister Abkhûz might have some interesting insights about the day of the cave-in, provided he remembers. But Bard's people are all but prohibited from approaching him, and I can't spare the effort, either. Which is where you come in.”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo groans, “Gandalf, _no._ ”

“You are close to the brothers, yes? I'm confident you'll find a way for them to let you speak to their uncle, and find out more about-”

“I said _no,_ Gandalf,” Bilbo cuts him off curtly, surprised at the strength of his voice, “no. I will _not_ use my friends like this. I will not lie to them just for the sake of your... your hunch. This is a horrible thing to suggest, come _on._ Would you have me lie to even more people I've come to like in this sodding country? I swear, it's like you're on a mission to make Erebor unlivable for me. Wait, are you?”

“Hopefully not,” Gandalf sighs, “and I understand your reservations, I do. But if Mister Abkhûz does have any valuable information, and more importantly, if he's capable of relaying that information to the court at one point or another, he might be crucial to Smaug Bundushar's downfall. This is...-”

“If you say _'bigger than you',_ or some such nonsense, I swear to god,” Bilbo all but growls.

“I'm asking for you help.” 

Bilbo sighs almost painfully, watching the dashes of golden light dance through the leaves of the trees and on the grass, and he realizes he can't even enjoy any of it anymore. It's been ruined for him.

“Why didn't you say so six months ago?” he mumbles, “I would have slammed the door in your face and never ever opened it again.”

“I assure you I didn't quite anticipate things would develop in this way when I first invited you here.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

“What of it, then?” Gandalf asks lightly, as if Bilbo's surly tone hasn't affected him at all, “will you help?”

“I don't think so.”

“...You don't?” Gandalf repeats, and Bilbo derives some satisfaction from the obvious hint of confusion in his voice.

“No,” he says simply, and thinks of the warmth of Thorin's hand in his, and of Kili laughing, and of Fili greeting him enthusiastically this morning, showing him the beautiful photos he'd printed out, “I think I've done quite enough. I still don't know why you even come to me... why you're counting on me so much. I have a job here, that's... well, not exactly simple, but certainly enjoyable, and I intend to do it properly. Trust me when I say that it is needed, now that you've gone and turned the country upside down.”

“Strictly speaking it wasn't my doing that-”

“Oh, but I don't care, Gandalf,” Bilbo replies perfectly calmly, “I really, honestly don't. You have dragged me into enough trouble.”

“You have every reason to be upset, but please, just consider the ramifications of-”

“To hell with _ramifications,_ ” Bilbo hisses, “you're the mysterious secret-agent figure with commandos under your control, and, and international interests. You deal with the ramifications and consequences. I want my biggest worry to be getting all the Princes' textbooks in time, do you understand?”

“Bilbo...”

“Don't you _'Bilbo'_ me, Gandalf. I could never in my right mind agree to what you're asking of me! Exploit my friendship with these people like this? Sorry, but that's where I draw the line.”

“Well,” Gandalf sighs a bit theatrically in Bilbo's opinion, “I see. I once thought you would perhaps draw it at impersonating someone, but I suppose this is a testament to your ability to always surprise me-”

“ _Goodbye,_ Gandalf,” Bilbo groans, and all but snarls at the phone as he ends the call.

He stops, inhaling the fresh air thirstily. He's angry beyond belief, but it's the sort of righteous anger that actually turns right back around at some point and makes him feel a bit steadier. He could do this, he could work like this – telling Gandalf off until everything's blown past him. He knows he has no obligation to help, but after everything he's been through, he has no desire either. A while back, he used to think he was _doing the right thing,_ and there was some thrill in imagining himself being a part of _the bigger picture,_ but not anymore. Not anymore. He was not built a liar, and it's taking its toll on him – he mustn't let it get too far. He mustn't let himself be seen as some sort of pushover. Bottom line is, he came to Erebor, he fell in love with the country, the people, the Princes, _the King,_ and he has quite a number of lovely memories of it all – he refuses to let those be tainted by anything.

Maybe he should go find Thorin right now and tell him the truth. The idea strikes him as he stares at the imposing white marble of the back tract of the Palace, casting a shade over the endless lines of neat bushes, the only sound the quiet trickling of the beautiful fountain in the center of it all, and it freezes him in place. It would be so easy, to just... confess, wouldn't it? He would very probably lose his job, and very certainly lose any affection Thorin has for him, but surely it would be the right thing to do? 

But then he thinks of the soft knock on the door of his apartment last night, of Thorin coming to him for comfort, of his hunched figure in the armchair by the window, and the worried wrinkles around his eyes, and he decides against it. Who is Bilbo to add to the endless pile of the things the King has to worry about already? He thinks it's a little bit selfish, not wanting to ruin Thorin's image of him, but then again ruining it on purpose would do more harm than good... right? Well, talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 

“Could we go back to the mountains for Fili's birthday?” Kili asks him that night as Bilbo's settling in on his bed to read one of the last chapters of _The Hitchhiker's Guide,_ and Fili, sitting down on the carpet nearby, adds: “It's in January, and Deidre says that there are some skiing slopes there! I haven't skied in years!”

“And I've never skee-ed,” Kili babbles, rolling on his back and hefting up a purring Muzmith up high, swaying her lightly from side to side, almost as if he's imagining she's the one skiing down a snowy hill.

“Well, I'm afraid me neither,” Bilbo chuckles, and tries not to think, _I might be good and gone come January._

“I'll teach you both,” Fili declares, then remembers enthusiastically, “Bert says that we would have to take the Jeep to drive up there in the winter, there's so much snow. We could build one of those...”

“An igloo?” Bilbo offers, judging from the boy's hands drawing a hemisphere in the air.

“Yeah! It would be fun, right?”

“Snowball fights!” Kili adds his point of view.

“That does sound lovely,” Bilbo smiles, “although-”

“Oh, you and Thorin could just stay inside by the fireplace all the time,” Fili offers lightly, and Bilbo's momentarily confused, hoping that his blush isn't too visible, before he recomposes himself and replies: “Why? Do you think your Uncle and I couldn't hold our own in a snowball fight?”

Fili grins cheekily, and is no doubt about to add more, when there's a knock on the door, and Bilbo knows in an instant that it is Thorin.

“ _Indâd!_ ” Kili exclaims, “can you fight with snow?”

“Can I... what now?” Thorin frowns, and before he closes the door, Bilbo sees Dwalin and one more guard outside in the hallway, a vague knot in his stomach tightening a bit when the Head of Security catches his gaze and doesn't seem in the least pleased.

“Snowball fights,” Fili explains.

“The boys were just telling me about their plans for Fili's birthday,” Bilbo says, “apparently they've got it all figured out.”

“Really?” Thorin chuckles, almost causing Bilbo a nasty heart attack when he sits down on the bed next to him, letting Kili crawl into his lap, “that's early.”

“Better early than never,” Kili says wisely, and both Bilbo and Thorin laugh, while Fili supplies the correct form of the phrase.

And really, Bilbo thinks, this is all that he wants. This is all he will ever aspire to – the Princes happy, spending time with their Uncle, and Thorin himself actually _finding_ the time to spend with them. As he starts reading, Thorin's hand settles on the small of his back, invisible to the boys, and all that matters to Bilbo is the pleasant, heavy warmth of it, the soft golden glow in the room, and the tiny sounds – the purring of the kitten, Fili's occasional quiet chuckle, Kili repeating some of the words he finds interesting under his breath, the ruffling of the pages, Thorin's breathing... He almost closes his eyes a couple of times, as if it could in any way preserve this pristine moment and make it everlasting. This is something that no one in their right mind could ask him to destroy. Or leave, for that matter.

He finishes reading almost reluctantly, and sits still as Thorin's hand slides off his back, leaving behind an unpleasantly cold spot, and the King goes about tucking Kili in, the boy already half-asleep, and then wishes good night to Fili as well. Bilbo thinks his heart has never hurt more than when he watches Fili take the King's hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet, Thorin smiling gently as they watch him hurry to his bed, quite literally jumping in, burrowing under his blanket until nothing but tufts of golden curls are visible of him, and offering a thumbs-up.

“Good night,” Bilbo chuckles, and nods to Thorin, who switches off the lights.

If every day concluded like this, Bilbo is certain he'd be more than happy to spend the rest of his life this way.

“I'm going away until the speech on Sunday,” Thorin says to him in the hallway, exchanging one no doubt meaningful look with Dwalin on the far end of it, and Bilbo is instantly reminded that what he's living is certainly quite far from a fairy tale, after all.

“The man... my father is being transferred, and I... well,” the King clears his throat, glancing at Dwalin, “I can't tell you much more than that. But...”

“I understand,” Bilbo smiles, even though he's not quite sure how he's managed to mold his face into that, out of the dozen other grimaces that would feel more natural to show.

“You still don't know if he's... really him, then?” he asks quietly, and Thorin shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin, worried line, and Bilbo only ever overpowers the urge to reach out for him when he catches the sight of Dwalin crossing his arms over his chest out of the corner of his eye.

“I'll see you on Sunday,” Thorin mumbles.  
“Yes. Get... get enough sleep.”

The King's smile broadens, and he steers them so that his back is to Dwalin and Bilbo is completely obscured from the man's view. Then he cups Bilbo's cheek, gently and briefly, and Bilbo barely has the time to reach up and touch his forearm before he utters: “I must go. I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Bilbo murmurs, only when Thorin's well out of earshot, and watches him disappear behind the corner very much like he did the last night.

Will it always be like this?, he wonders. Barely getting enough time to exchange a few words, never getting enough time to actually talk? And how long will 'always' last, before it all goes south, and quick?

He yelps when the door next to him opens slowly, and Fili frowns at him almost inquisitively. 

“What's going on?” he demands.

“Your Uncle's leaving until the speech on Sunday,” Bilbo replies simply, not seeing the point in scolding the Prince for crawling out of bed and probably eavesdropping, too.

“Hmm,” Fili comments, “okay. What's going on with you?”

“What's.. what do you think is going on with me?” Bilbo responds sloppily.

“You're all... _furkh_ _gurûd_ _,_ ” Fili waves his hand, and Bilbo frowns.

“I don't know that word.”

“Well, I don't know how to translate it, but it fits,” the boy offers simply, and Bilbo actually chuckles at the sight of him, crossing his arms over his chest much like his Uncle always does, with the slight alteration of wearing his Superman pajamas.

“I'm fine,” Bilbo assures him.

“Deidre says you're delicate.”

“Oh, well excuse her!” Bilbo scoffs, “I'll show her delicate!”

“She also says you and Thorin have an agreement.”

“What, erm... what sort of an agreement?” Bilbo says carefully, very earnestly hoping that Deidre knows better than to go about explaining to the Princes what isn't hers to explain.

“Dunno,” Fili shrugs, “is it the sort of agreement where you stay with us for good?”

And Bilbo really wants to find a suitable reply to that, but he is quite overcome – Fili merely gazes at him with a calm not usually found in one of his age, lightly swaying back and forth on his heels, his hair all mussed up, and Bilbo finds the guilt almost petrifying. 

“I hope so,” he manages faintly, and Fili grins.

“Good.”

“Now off, off you go, back to bed,” Bilbo says, ushering him back inside his room, and as he watches him climb into his bed and makes sure they haven't woken up Kili, he thinks about hope.

A fragile article indeed, especially when it is a fool's hope.

* * *

**Dictionary:**   


_Abanaz Melhekhînh_ \- The Stone Princess

_Abanmagamîn_ \- Amphitheater

_Gaubdûkhimâ_ \- The pleasure was mine.

_Furkhgurûd_ \- distracted, with a hint of disturbed **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. I'm sorry this chapter took a little longer than usual - for one, real life got in the way big time, and honestly, it was also an ordeal to write. The plot thickens so much no one can actually see through to the point anymore... But we are still, surprisingly enough, getting somewhere. Bifur only ever spawned in some of the later drafts of the overall story, but there you have him, and there's more to come. Apparently, at some point, I felt like revealing one mysterious man's identity wasn't enough... I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless! :)


	17. Chapter 17

There are so many things nobody tells you when you're growing up. So many things you should be prepared for, say, after high school, but aren't – taxes and bills, buying your own food, and toilet paper, and toothpaste, adult phone calls, adult responsibilities in general. Then there are things you _think_ you might have some idea about, like relationships, your job, your _future,_ in that sort of generic dream-like way _._ None of it is true, and you spend your early twenties coming to terms with the fact that growing up is _about_ being lost and fumbling around and not having enough money, ever. At some point, Bilbo remembers very distinctly, he realized that the feeling of having it all figured out might last a month, or a day, but never for good. Still, they were good years. It was the good sort of insecurity, the kind that spurred him on and kept him going. He knew he had so much to do, so much to see; he knew what he was good at. Even after all of his enthusiasm had dampened a bit after his mother's death, he was still certain he was going somewhere, and that the dead-end job at the public high school was just a momentary stop on the road towards something much more exciting.

Well, perhaps if he had managed to actually stop and think before he quite literally packed all his belongings and ran off to Erebor, things might have been very different. But no, he let Gandalf lure him away with talk of _'excitement'_ and _'adventures',_ and here he is now, just as clueless as he was when he was twenty-three. But this time, he can't exactly afford it. His worries are beginning to sound like a broken record, for crying out loud. He felt sort of powerful when he refused to help Gandalf earlier, and he should stick to that, probably. Yes.

But the problem is, he's starting to feel very small and lost again, Bofur driving the boys and him to the Gabil-Dum for the grand speech and whatnot – he actually woke up in the morning immensely excited about seeing Thorin again, but right now, he feels like he perhaps shouldn't have had that fry-up for breakfast. The car flows through the mid-day traffic effortlessly, as it's sporting one of those blue flashing lights on the top, and small flags with the royal crest flapping at the front of the bonnet, but Bilbo thinks he'd much rather they took their time – today is apparently not one of those he can manage big crowds and the rush of cameras, and security guards, and what have you. Not to mention Thorin in one of those magnificent uniforms once again, probably.

He had spent yesterday at the security briefing Dwalin had so strictly suggested he attends, and all the talk of color-coded emergency protocols only served to set him more on edge, to be honest. He'd also tried to convince the Head of Security to let him leave his gun at home – to no avail. Dwalin, already tense from all the pressure, had only grumbled 'You know how not to shoot yourself, that's enough for me.', and that was the end of that, apparently.

At least the boys seem as unfazed as ever – Bilbo thinks he could learn a thing or two from them. They truly are very professional when it comes to handling all the events they have to attend, Kili charming everyone with his easy smiles and bright attitude, and Fili always astonishing people with his very calm demeanor – the stress of it all doesn't seem to get to them at all, ever. Right now, they're chattering away about this or that superhero movie, the quick Khuzdul interspersed with bits of English too chaotic for Bilbo to keep up with, and so he merely gazes out of the window and makes sure Kili doesn't untie his bowtie every thirty seconds.

At last the car slinks through the richly decorated gate of the Ereborean Parliament, the tall wings wide open and people already pouring in, filling the vast park effortlessly, sitting in the shade of the old chestnut trees with children and dogs and cameras and cotton candy... And really, this is what Bilbo admires about Erebor in general, the joy with which everything is celebrated, even the most prestigious events usually held outside. He can't count the concerts and theater plays Fridda and her friends have dragged him off to during the months, and he loves discovering that the center of the capital is pretty much one huge park. It is customary to walk everywhere, or ride a bike, and the prevalent idea is that if the weather is nice enough, why spend the day inside? What a country. And the people – everybody is very easygoing, kind, healthy... The English could learn a lot from this nation, and Bilbo now knows his mood really does depend on his surroundings. If... _when_ he returns to England, the bleary weather and even blearier people will be a perfect setting for his depression, or sadness, or whatever will follow his inevitable downfall here. It's just as well – in the end, Erebor is too good to be true.

God, no wonder he's so bloody depressed – he's always been about enjoying the present, yes, but he can barely concentrate on anything beyond his increasingly gloomy thoughts now.

The car carries them away from the bulk of the crowd, and they enter the grandiose building through an entrance in the backyard. There are groups of security guards marching here and there, and a lot of men in smart suits in which Bilbo recognizes some of Erebor's politicians, and he even catches a glimpse of Bard, surrounded by his team of journalists, and his stomach protests vehemently, his heart fluttering in his chest. Nervousness isn't really a good description of his feelings – no, it's more like a vague fright, as if his body is trying to warn him about something bad coming before his brain has managed to register it.

They are ushered inside by some of Dwalin's men alongside the Gabil-Dum house staff, and before long, Balin finds them, and leads them through the seemingly endless corridors of the building, all high ceilings and immense amounts of natural light, and their footsteps echoing off the marble floors. The boys might be talking about something and laughing, and Balin might be trying to explain something to them, but Bilbo doesn't really hear any of it – he realizes there and then just how much of a dream all of this feels like, the golden speckles of dust fluttering in the stripes of light, and a strange quiet of the mass of the building dulling any and all sounds, despite the fact that the corridors are quite crowded. He remembers visiting the Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome some years back, how the sheer space made him feel so tiny, and muffled the loudness of the tourists to nothing but a gentle murmur, and for a second there he thought he understood what the size of the place was for – it was rather easy letting one's mind wander and one's problems dissipate momentarily, surrounded by something so much bigger, so much older, capable of storing so much more memories, a sum of all the people that have walked there before him.

Right, _now_ 's a good time for daydreaming about cathedrals.

Before he can spiral even further into yet another minor existential crisis, Balin regains his attention by splitting him from the Princes, who wave at him cheerfully as they are led away by yet more staff.

“What is going on?” Bilbo asks, confused, “I thought we were supposed to wait together until...”

“The King wants to speak with you,” Balin offers simply, and Bilbo's stomach flutters uneasily, but Balin simply gazes at him slightly expectantly, and without a hint of any other thought or judgment.

“Alright...” Bilbo shrugs, and follows Balin up a flight of stairs, apparently away from the people.

They meet Dwalin in front of one of the many doors lining the hallway, and he merely nods to them, sizing Bilbo up and down in his usual vaguely threatening manner, and gestures for him to go inside. He half expects to be followed, but they shut the door behind him, and he doesn't have the time to think too hard about what's going on, because he sees Thorin then, and his mind once again proves itself to be very one-track.

The King is pacing the length of the room impatiently, his hands folded behind his back, and it might be a rather beautiful office with nice armchairs and a richly decorated carpet, but Bilbo doesn't care for any of it, because when Thorin sees him and exhales 'Bilbo' in relief, nothing is suddenly more important.

“Hello,” he says faintly, “everything alright?”

“Somewhat,” Thorin replies, then a vague gesture towards a door on the far wall, “my father is in the next room.”

“He's... he is? And is he...?”

“Yes,” Thorin sighs, understanding Bilbo's babbling by some miracle, “the DNA test results came in last night, and he's really... well.”

“I'm...” Bilbo begins, but stops there, because what are you supposed to say in situations like this, really?

When do situations like this actually ever happen in real life?

“I will be announcing his existence in the speech,” the King supplies, raking his hand through his hair – only then does Bilbo take in his appearance more carefully, and sees that he doesn't look any less harried than he did two days ago – in fact, it's probably even worse.

“That's... quick.”

“Very quick,” Thorin nods, “too quick. But apparently an excellent chance for a proper media blowout – Mister Ibindikhel's words, not mine. He seems to think the added shock value is exactly what the country needs. As if the elections aren't enough. Anyway... I need your help.”

“Of course, anything,” Bilbo replies before he can really think about it, and there it is – the core of all his current problems, the speed with which he agrees whenever the King asks something of him, his utter lack of doubt _or_ clear thinking.

“I'd like the boys to meet him,” Thorin explains, “ _he_ actually wants to meet them. He's surprisingly lively, even though his memory's a bit... not there.”

“Thorin...” Bilbo sighs, once again feeling immensely sorry for him.

“No, it's fine, really,” the King says firmly, even managing a small smile, “we spent yesterday talking... whenever he wasn't sleeping, that is. And the doctors say he's recovering rather miraculously. No one really knows what he's been through, but...”

His voice dies down, because Bilbo crosses the distance between them without really thinking about it, and takes his hand in both of his.

“You're not... No one in their right mind can expect you to be completely alright about all this,” he says somewhat stiffly, and Thorin hangs his head, his brow furrowing with worry, once again allowing himself to be vulnerable in Bilbo's presence.

“...I'm terrified,” he mumbles so quietly Bilbo almost doesn't hear it, “I'm scared that whenever I come back to him, he won't be there. It's like I dreamed him.”

And oh, Bilbo can understand that so very well, the fear of losing something because it seems too good to be true.

“You deserve him,” is the only thing to say he can think of, “he's here, and he's not going away.”

Thorin closes his eyes for a moment, his frown almost pained, his fingers closing around Bilbo's lightly, and he breathes calmly, visibly stonewalling himself.

“Will you... be there when I introduce the boys to him?” he mutters, “will you help me explain to them what's going on? I wouldn't like anything better than to postpone all this, but I'll be mentioning him in the speech, and they can't just...”

“Of course,” Bilbo says softly, laying his other hand on the King's arm, “of course.”

He's torn between feeling like an intruder in the whole thing, and worrying where he'll possibly gather the strength to keep himself from crumbling down when he does indeed have to cope with whatever the Princes' reaction will be, not to mention an obviously emotionally compromised Thorin. And oh, remember the days when his worst worry was to reconcile the King and his nephews? Why didn't he stop there, again? Why didn't he push a bit harder and let himself be fired? Perhaps he should write a book titled something like _The Things You Never Thought Could Ruin Your Life So Thoroughly,_ and 'falling in love with a monarch' would be number one with a cherry on top.

Thorin simply squeezes his hand briefly and brushes past him, ordering for the Princes to be fetched, and then he stands by the door to his father's room, and Bilbo's seized by a sudden fright when he realizes what he wants him to do.

“Come on,” Thorin says gently, his hand on the doorknob.

“Is that... such a good idea?” Bilbo peeps, “I mean, he must be rather exhausted, and...”

“It's fine,” the King smiles, then adds, after a moment of hesitation, “please.”

And Bilbo can't really say no to that, now can he? His heart beating entirely too fast, he follows Thorin into the room, and is reminded of his sneaking about at that rally a while ago, how he was unable to rein in his curiosity... All in all, that's probably where it all started escalating at a pace he could no longer control.

The room is bathing in the hazy golden glow of the midday sun, and the man in the wheelchair in the middle of it is sitting facing the large window, hunched over and tiny, and it's as if... it's as if he might dissolve into thin air any second. Like a plant that's been kept in the dark for too long, and is now barely strong enough to regain its energy from the sunlight. Such apt metaphors, Bilbo Baggins.

“ _Adad,_ ” Thorin says very softly, and Bilbo has had his fair share of experiencing the unexpected parts of the King's expressions, but even he has never heard such tenderness in his voice before – he only watches mutely as Thorin goes to stand by his father's side, and his heart clenches for the both of them when the King puts his hand on Thrain's shoulder, just a brief brush, and the man tilts his head up to look, his fine hair, white as snow, suddenly gilded with the gold of the sun rays. Bilbo feels very distinctly like he's stepped into some sort of a fairy tale, or a movie, the two of them looking so surreal, so far away, so intimate – he almost backs right out of the room.

“ _Adad,_ _zirikhzu ubdûkhum_ _,_ ” Thorin says, and Bilbo knows far too well what that means, and Thorin's looking at him then, gesturing for him to come closer encouragingly, and so he gulps and obliges.

Thrain is so very frail, and all that Bilbo can see as he approaches him is the web of wrinkles across his face, and the frayed skin of his hand, blue veins entirely too visible under the numerous age spots, and he thinks, _he can't be real. He can't... he can't hold together for very long._ A soft gasp escapes him quite unwittingly when he's met with the man's eyes, though – they are a striking blue just like Thorin's, and alive enough to do the job for the rest of the body, probably. The tall brow and strong jaw are familiar as well, the powerful Durin nose instantly recognizable, and for some reason, all that Bilbo can think of is _I can see where Thorin gets his good looks, sir._ God, he is definitely losing his mind.

“ _Shamukh,_ ” Thrain surprises him by speaking first, his voice deep and ragged, and Bilbo almost swallows his tongue.

“Ah... _shamukh,_ _uzbad_ _._ ”

Thrain's eyes narrow, and he inclines his head towards Thorin, muttering: “ _D_ _indurjâl?_ ”

“ _A_ _ngladin_ _ûn_ _,_ ” Thorin nods, and to both his and Bilbo's surprise, the old man smiles then, genuinely pleased.

“I am Thrain,” he declares slowly, his eyes piercing Bilbo once again, “I... have not spoken... English in a very long time.”

Bilbo's heart stops, genuinely skips a beat, when he sees the pure joy in Thorin's eyes, regarding his father in awe, making him look so much younger.

“My name is Bilbo, sir,” he says, “and your English is excellent.”

“Hmm... so far,” Thrain supplies serenely, and then, as if pondering some monumental task, he glares at his own hand before lifting it and extending it to Bilbo – everything about his movements is slow and calculated, but somehow, the initial feeling of fragility Bilbo got the sense of is disappearing swiftly. There is a sort of silent power about the man, something he can't quite put his finger on – perhaps it has to do with endurance, and surviving god knows what. Only then does Bilbo notice the thin white tube leading from the back of Thrain's left hand under the sleeve of his shirt, and he sighs a bit shakily before accepting the other hand – the man's grip is feeble, understandably so, but his palm is warmer than Bilbo would expect, and it reassures him, somehow. Perhaps a family trait.

“Bilbo takes care of the boys, _Adad,_ ” Thorin explains, and Thrain's eyes light up immediately.

“ _Kulhûn_ _buzunizd_ _?_ ” he demands, and then turns to Bilbo almost apologetically, “forgive me if I sometimes... my native language comes... more easily to me.”

“No, that's fine, I understood quite well,” Bilbo smiles, and Thrain raises his eyebrows, nearly approvingly.

“They will be here soon,” Thorin supplies.

“ _Ghelekh,_ ” Thrain sighs raggedly. _Good._

And indeed, before Bilbo can start getting all worried about what to say, how to act around the man, a soft knock comes on the door, and Thorin's father looks at his son expectantly, his expression verging on excited – Bilbo observes how unexpected and unusual it still is for Thorin, his smile a bit unsure.

“ _G_ _ugûnma tashfat_ _,_ ” he tells Thrain, who nods slowly, and Bilbo understands then, the fear Thorin had talked about – the man really is like a mirage, stick thin and pale, and even though his face is very stern in that regal way, his whole posture betrays his weakness. He must be around seventy, Bilbo reckons, but he looks even older than that, and it's almost painful to see him attempt to steer the wheelchair so that it's facing the door – his hands are shaking, and as Thorin takes over and helps him, Bilbo can't help but think that Thrain should not be up and about, at all. He needs to lie down, and sleep, and perhaps be connected to a medical device or three, lest a gust of wind blows him away... Bilbo sees the same worry in Thorin's eyes, but already he understands that Thrain might have suggested this himself – if there is anything strong and unbreakable about him, it's probably his will.

Bilbo goes ahead, and sees that the Princes are already being ushered into the room.

“What's up?” Fili asks, and Kili mirrors him, singing the same phrase with much more enjoyment – he's only ever learned it recently, and seems to be liking it a great deal.

Bilbo turns to seek guidance with Thorin, but then he reminds himself that he's to be the strong one in this whole thing, for the sake of everyone else involved. Oh, the irony.

“Your Uncle would like you to meet someone,” he says, and Fili frowns, while Kili raises his eyebrows, ever so excited.

“Who is it?” the younger Prince demands, “someone new?”

“Of course it's someone new,” Fili snorts, “you can't be meeting someone you already know!”

“Boys,” Thorin says firmly, clearing his throat and standing by Bilbo's side, and Bilbo barely stops himself from reaching out and taking his hand as a sign of support.

“Do you remember your grandfather?” Thorin continues, his voice carefully level, “Thrain? Fili, he was around when you were very little. He was the one who... we lost in the revolution.”

“Revo-loo-tion,” Kili murmurs the word unknown to him under his breath as is his custom, but his brother shoos him off.

“Is he alive? Is he in that room?” he asks with surprising zest, and Thorin's eyes widen, but it's obvious that the boy would turn to the most fantastic scenario he could come up with, Bilbo knows.

But Thorin seems a little taken aback still, and so he takes over.

“Actually, he is,” he says, and the King nods imperceptibly.

“What?!” Fili's mouth all but hangs agape, while Kili seems very confused.

“Your Grandfather is alive,” Bilbo declares clearly, “he has been through a lot, and he has only been home for a short while. He's very tired, but he wanted to meet you.”

Fili simply stares in awe, but Kili asks, with the surety of a determined eight-year-old: “But if he's alive, why didn't he come home sooner?”

A strange strained sound comes from Thorin, betraying him for a split second, and Bilbo smiles, reaching out and ruffling Kili's hair shortly.

“He was... unwell. He couldn't come home. But he's here now, and he wants to say hi. Will you come greet him?”

“Yeah!” Kili exclaims, and for his part, Fili seems equal parts excited and shocked, but Bilbo quickly interjects: “Now, he's not exactly at full health yet, so quietly, alright? Be nice.”

He catches Thorin's thankful look, and manages what he hopes is an encouraging smile, and then leads on – the Princes are suddenly a bit timid, understandably so. Fili lingers behind, waiting for Bilbo to enter the room first, and Kili hurries to his side, grabbing his hand.

“Is he nice?” he asks, an almost reverent whisper.

“He's very nice,” Bilbo chuckles softly.

Thrain is sitting facing the door now, and Kili gasps a little bit and Fili's reluctant to move any further. Thorin steps in, saying with that breathtaking tenderness: “ _Adad, these are your grandsons._ Fili, Kili, this is your Grandfather, Thrain.”

“ _E_ _zùhyesh_ _s_ _hamukh aimâ_ _,_ ” Fili uses a very formal greeting, somewhat stiff and still not moving from Bilbo's side, but Kili lets go of Bilbo's hand, and hurries to Thorin, tugging at his sleeve until the King understands, and crouches down, and the Prince whispers something into his ear conspiratorially, and Bilbo's heart beats all the faster when he sees the incredibly fond smile on Thrain's face, but more importantly, the one on Thorin's, as he whispers his reply to whatever Kili's question was, rather than saying it out loud – a sight none of them would believe could ever happen some months ago.

“Go on,” the King tells his nephew very gently, and the boy inhales deeply, as if preparing himself for some monumental task, and walks over to Thrain, who regards him as if he were nothing short of the eighth wonder of the world, and when Kili reaches out and takes his hand in both of his comparably tiny ones, shaking it once, very carefully, and declaring: “I'm Kili. I'm eight now. Can I call you _G_ _amilda_ _?_ ”, the old man huffs a short laugh, visibly touched. Bilbo's chest clenches in fondness that's nothing short of painful, and he looks at Thorin, who gets up slowly, his own face a clear picture of overwhelming and struggling emotions. This must be one of those moments that history is made of, and Bilbo feels redundant, but no one but his conscience is protesting against his presence, and so he decides to dismiss his guilt for at least this short while.

“Yes please,” Thrain replies to the Prince, who gapes at him, eyes large, his fingers still closed around the man's hand gingerly.

Then Thrain utters something in quick Khuzdul that Bilbo doesn't quite catch, but Kili giggles shortly, and more importantly, Fili moves from Bilbo's side and steps closer as well.

“I'm Fili,” he says, a bit quieter and more wary than his brother, but Thrain seems utterly mesmerized with him nevertheless.

“ _Azalizu_ _,_ ” he mutters.

 _I remember you._ It hits Bilbo then, that it's only been ten years since the revolution, and Thrain knew Fili as a toddler – there is something profoundly tragic about the idea. Thorin's father proceeds to speak to his grandson in Khuzdul, and Bilbo only catches about a half of it, _you were very small,_ and _golden hair,_ and _your mother,_ and he's so profoundly touched by the whole scene, so undone by the level of miraculous impossibility unfolding before his eyes, so overwhelmed by the fact that he's somehow, inexplicably a part of it a little bit... He's dumbstruck by his love for this family, and he turns to Thorin, who is now standing by his side, with a sharp inhale, because he suddenly feels like he needs to convey it, but what he sees takes his breath away utterly and completely.

The King's eyes are brimming with tears, and he's smiling that sort of smile that can't be fought off, and when he looks at Bilbo, it broadens even more, and his hand finds Bilbo's fingers, closing around them, and all that Bilbo can think is, _this is the man you will ruin. This is the man you will eventually have to turn away from, for his good, and for the good of his family, and..._ Except, will he? For a couple of seconds, he almost convinces himself that what he's done pales in comparison with... all this. That Thorin might find it within him to forgive him. He will soon look at this moment feeling utterly disgusted with how easily he's chosen a blissful ignorance, but for now... it's too good to be true, and yet it is happening, and he smiles back at Thorin, wide and bright, tangling their fingers together and squeezing, and thinks he could do anything to keep that smile in place. Perhaps his wrongdoings aren't quite so unforgivable... right?

Soon he is all but overflowing with a joy that's come utterly out of nowhere, and rather than calling it a dangerous mood swing considering how he felt not so long ago, he decides to go with it. It's safer. It's more convenient, more pleasant... more befitting the situation. He won't taint this family's moment by getting lost in his own worries.

“ _Adad,_ _irmishâl_ _m_ _â_ _,_ ” Thorin declares then, his voice the faintest bit unsteady.

They must get ready. Right, for the speech. Bilbo has almost forgotten all about it – it's hard to believe anything of greater magnitude than this could yet happen today.

“ _G_ _amilda_ _,_ are you coming with us?” Kili asks, visibly overjoyed.

“No no, _akhunith,_ ” Thorin says, “he'll stay here, and we'll tell people about him together, alright?”

“Alright,” Kili grins, and yet again, Bilbo is utterly amazed with the boys' easygoing demeanor, their ability to take things as they come, accept even the biggest shocks so effortlessly.

“But he's coming to stay at the Palace later?” Fili wants to know, and a strange flicker of emotion ghosts over the King's face, but then he nods with a smile.

“Can we show him our rooms?” Kili continues, “can he have lunch with us?”

Thrain laughs at the hundred-miles-per-hour pace of the boy's talking, and it's been about three minutes, but he already looks so much healthier for the Princes' presence. Bilbo doesn't believe in miracles, but calling all this an incredible coincidence would be a vast understatement.

“All in good time,” Thorin says, “now, we're on shortly, and I need to get dressed. I'll be right back.”

Bilbo offers a reassuring nod, and the King holds his gaze for a fleeting moment, as if he's trying to soak it in, and Bilbo wonders if he might need him to... No. Kili is currently flooding his Grandfather with about ten different questions per second, and Bilbo knows he's more needed here, as it were. He watches carefully as Kili tells Thrain of their 'vacation' in the house in the mountains, making sure that the boy doesn't mention anything inconveniently disturbing regarding the attack that led to it – he can't be sure just how much Thrain knows, and he _certainly_ can't be sure how much he can take. From what he understands, the man's been awake, on and off, for what? three, four days? Does everything always happen so fast in Erebor?

But if any of them were worried that the reconciled family would have any trouble communicating, they were wrong – Kili once again proves excellent at breaking the ice, loud and charming and funny, and Fili remarks something here and there, calm, still a bit reserved even, and it's obvious that Thrain is straining to keep up with them, but does so gladly. His eyes are darting from Fili to Kili and back, and his lips are curved in a faint smile, and Bilbo can only guess what it feels like, waking up, returning, and being faced with... with this. One of Thrain's children is dead, the other still scarred by the premature mourning of both his sister and his father, and then there are the two boys, happy and healthy, pristine... They must be glowing in Thrain's eyes, Bilbo thinks. Two little beacons of hope. _Light at the end of the tunnel,_ his mind supplies a tad morbidly.

In the end, he does back out of the room, and the three barely notice, the Princes immersed in describing their... what was it? school activities? Something along those lines, if Bilbo understood the Khuzdul correctly.

Bilbo expects to find Thorin in the adjacent office, _wants_ to find him there, and is a bit disappointed when that doesn't happen, but then he steals a peek through the door on the opposite wall half ajar, and sees the King pace by. Bilbo enters the room without really thinking about it, and sees Thorin standing in front of a mirror, his hands frozen on the knot of his tie, gazing at his own reflection somewhat dazedly. He snaps out of whatever reverie he was in when he notices Bilbo out of the corner of his eye, and offers a very short smile before resuming the work on his tie, loosening it and redoing it completely.

“The boys...?” he mumbles.

“Doing just fine. They seem really quite... quite happy.”

Thorin sighs deeply, contentedly, keeping his eyes closed for a split second longer than usual.

“I wasn't sure if it was a good idea to... oh _safra,_ ” he curses under his breath, then looks at Bilbo in the mirror almost shamefully, “Seems like I can't even tie a simple tie today.”

“Here,” Bilbo smiles and steps closer, and Thorin takes a second until he understands what Bilbo wants to do, but then he lets him, and Bilbo feels his piercing gaze at him the whole time he's tying the knot for him.

He tucks it in place, smoothing the black silk down, and he only needs to linger a millisecond before Thorin brushes his fingers across his knuckles.

“ _Âkmînruk zu_ _,_ ” the King murmurs, and Bilbo chuckles, looking up at last.

“It's been a while since I've done this for anybody else than myself.”

“I didn't mean for the tie – well, not entirely, anyway,” Thorin sighs.

“Right, well,” Bilbo clears his throat, but whatever the rest of that sentence was going to be, it eludes him now.

“I'm sorry we don't have more time,” the King says simply, quietly, and Bilbo can't really do much besides stare at him, dumbfounded, very seriously wondering if kissing him would improve anything, and if _improving_ things should really be his concern, all things considered.

“That's alright,” he mumbles, but what he means is, _four days ago, all we – you – had to worry about was blueberry cupcakes and evading the cameras, and now you have your father back and your country to introduce to the existence of miracles. I can hardly compete with that, and honestly, not being on the forefront of your mind shouldn't be mildly reassuring, but it sort of... is. Calling myself a catalyst of all this mess might be a bit pretentious now, but I'm afraid that once we find ourselves with_ enough _time, it'll stop sounding so ridiculous._

All good things come to an end, and somehow, having Thorin to himself for such fleeting moments, such short, precious whiles, is stalling the coming of the inevitable in a way. Makes it look distant, miles and miles away, makes Bilbo forget. He knows that if they ever get the time to... to _talk_ about all this, their feelings and expectations and whatnot, the fake, momentary sense of security will be crushed for good.

“It's alright,” he repeats, even quieter now, and to his immense surprise, the King cradles his chin between his thumb and index finger, a gesture so tender it makes Bilbo feel younger, vulnerable, even more at a loss in general, and when he looks into Thorin's eyes, he sees a steady fondness, the tranquility of which he can't reciprocate at the moment.

“When all of... this is settled,” the King's gaze darts away, seemingly encompassing the entirety of the mess, the hundreds of people waiting outside the building, the journalists preparing for probably the biggest surprise of their collective careers without knowing it, the whole country about to be turned upside down with the news, “I would...”

“I'll be here,” Bilbo says softly, _great, yet another promise that you're bound to break,_ “if you... well, if you'll still want me to.”

Could have ended with _'want me'_ , decided not to for both his sake and the sake of the integrity of the sentence – it was pathetic enough as it was.

“I was thinking dinner,” Thorin supplies, an almost sheepish grin curving his lips when Bilbo gapes at him, somewhat taken aback.

“That's very, um... conventional,” Bilbo manages at last, and Thorin huffs a laugh.

“I know. No protocol against it, either.”

“Oh good.”

“What do you think?”

“My treat.”

“Out of the question.”

“I'm in.”

Thorin chuckles and his fingers trail from Bilbo's chin to his cheek, and Bilbo catches himself grinning quite unabashedly, before he realizes it's yet another one of those fleeting moments somehow extracted from reality, too good to be true, _too good to stay._ Right. Lovely.

“Thank you,” the King repeats, in English now, which is somehow, fortunately, less touching, and Bilbo sighs: “I'm just going to assume it's for the tie.”, and then they do kiss, tender and warm and tingling with the fresh scent of whatever cologne Thorin's wearing, and Bilbo's hand is still curled on the King's chest, and he feels entirely too safe, entirely too comfortable.

The sound of someone clearing their throat discreetly makes them both gasp, quite undignified, and after they part hastily, they see Balin standing there, his gaze averted politely.

“Ten minutes, _uzbad_ _,_ ” he declares, and after he nods to Thorin's thanks, he shoots a meaningful look to Bilbo, who fails to decipher it, but doesn't fail to turn what must be a very potent shade of crimson.

The door to the hallway clicks shut again, and the King looks a bit lost for a second, before his gaze settles on the jacket of his uniform, still hanging on the door of the one wardrobe in the room, and he sighs raggedly, and goes to put it on. Bilbo's eyes are glued to his long fingers on the brass buttons, moving quickly and expertly, and when Thorin's finished and grants him a short smile, he finds he can return it, but with some hardship.

The King picks up a stack of papers, Bilbo noticing the colorful footnotes and remarks – probably one of the last drafts of the speech – and gives it a short glance, scratching his beard and muttering: “Well, here goes the stability of my country.”

He follows it with yet another small smile, but Bilbo's chest clenches nevertheless. He steps closer again, putting both his hands on those wonderful broad shoulders and sweeping some invisible specks off the lapels, murmuring: “Good luck. It'll be fine.”

“If it's not, will you bake consolatory cupcakes?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Despite all his regally firm features, the almost imperceptible gauntness of his cheeks and the wrinkles around his eyes betray how exhausted he really is, and Bilbo wonders when he slept last, or when he'll sleep again. Suddenly, he doesn't want to let him go, because after he makes the speech, he will surely be swept off and away by the media, everybody will be demanding answers all at once, there will barely be time to breathe, much less stop and rest... _Don't overwork yourself_ is something Bilbo's mother used to tell Bilbo's father, over and over again, even though she knew he'd spend yet another evening over this or that finding, straining his eyes in the dim orange light of his lamp. That, and Bungo's large glasses with brown rims, is all that Bilbo really remembers of his father, and also, he remembers thinking ' _why didn't you listen to her?'_ He was barely ten years old, and he believed that if Dad had listened to Mom just once and went to bed at a reasonable hour, he wouldn't have died...

Yes, what a wonderful memory to conjure up at this very moment. Bilbo attempts to shake it off as best he can, and follows Thorin to the room where his own father is, along with the Princes.

“He's just sleeping,” Kili declares, not even raising his head from the car magazine Fili and him found god knows where and are now browsing through, and they see that Thrain is indeed dozing off in his wheelchair, his head lolling to the side, and even though his breathing is visible and even, he still looks dangerously frail.

Thorin approaches him gently, but at that moment, both Dwalin and Balin enter the room, and Thrain's head snaps upright, the momentary confusion almost painful to watch. He steadies when Thorin lays a hand on his shoulder, and looks up at his son, then at his grandsons, frowning and readjusting himself in the wheelchair, as if he's displeased with his moment of weakness.

“Time to go,” Dwalin declares, and Bilbo notices that he regards the old man with some sort of... wary detachment, something Bilbo would love to find out more about, but doesn't think he ever will.

“ _Mizùl_ _,_ _inùdoy_ _,_ ” Thrain says, and then motions Thorin over much like Kili did a while ago, and the King bends over to him, uniform and all, letting him mumble something to his ear.

Bilbo watches the King's eyes widen, and then, surprisingly enough, he laughs, quiet and somewhat startled, and Bilbo really _sees it_ then, the likeness, when Thorin and his father smile at each other and the same sets of wrinkles fan out around their eyes, much more pronounced on one side of course, and their mouths curve almost identically.

Remembering his duties, he looks the Princes over, fixing Kili's bowtie for the last time and tucking a stray stray of hair behind Fili's ear, ignoring the grimaces of both, and tells them: “Good luck. Stand up straight. Wave-”

“Wave a little bit, smile a little bit, yeah, we know,” Fili retorts playfully, “we're professionals, right, _G_ _amilda_ _?_ ”

“Yes, you are,” Thrain chuckles, and Bilbo and Thorin exchange one more short look that tries to carry their mutual amusement as well as support, and then Dwalin leads the King and his nephews away, and the last thing Bilbo sees before they are out of the room and surrounded by security, is Kili slipping his hand into Thorin's.

Balin explains something to Thrain in Khuzdul, Bilbo catching bits and pieces of _if you need anything,_ and _people in the next room,_ and _food and water,_ and then before he knows it, he himself is ushered out of the room, following Balin obediently. It doesn't even occur to him to question where he's being led, too lost in his own thoughts, and so the bright sunlight and the gust of fresh air take him by surprise – they are in the backyard, quiet now as pretty much everyone else has moved to the front to watch the speech, and before Bilbo can ask why they're not headed there as well, Balin turns to him with a look, the purpose of which is easy to guess.

“Now that you know everything that's going on,” he says, “I hope you understand that after that speech is made, there will not be much time for... anything else besides the resulting circus.”

“Of course,” Bilbo nods, and Balin opens his mouth to say more, but the cheers rising from the front yard cut him off – Thorin must have just appeared, and Bilbo can almost see the hundreds of flags waving, and dogs barking, and people hoisting up their children on their shoulders to see better... He's simultaneously sorry he can't be there, and somehow calmer for it – he doesn't need another wonderful moment he'll regret cherishing later.

“I don't want to cause any trouble,” he tells Balin the truth, essentially, “I will... I'll keep my distance.”

“I never said you should,” Balin replies simply, and when Bilbo frowns, he smiles, adding much more gently, “I imagine my brother did, but if we all listened to Dwalin, we'd none of us get to step out of the Palace, ever. My point is-” scattered laughter of the crowd puts a smile to his face, “-despite everything that's happening to the King... You are one of the better things he and the boys have going on for themselves.”

“Balin,” Bilbo exhales sharply, perhaps a bit indignant, definitely disbelieving, but he can't quite continue past that – what do you say to something like that, anyway?

He feels a bit cold out of the blue, a bit unsteady – looking at Balin hints at the real scope of his... his downfall about to come. He'll not just be hurting the King and the boys, he'll probably, very definitely, end up alienating almost everyone he's met here. Oh good lord, will there be media interest in him? Will he have to answer questions, and, and dodge interviews...? Okay, not the time to be panicking so ridiculously. Not now. He inhales deeply.

“So what you're saying is...” he tries, and Balin continues: “What I'm saying is, there are no laws for this. No protocol against it, but also nothing that would teach us how to handle it. For all intents and purposes, this should be our biggest problem, but it isn't, and it's a blessing in disguise, because it gives us – _you –_ the time to decide.”

“Decide – decide what?”

“You must realize what you're getting yourself into. At the risk of sounding a bit pathetic, this is _the King_ you've decided to... get close to, not some person you met at a cafe. If you're still by his side after all this blows out, there will be questions, and a public interest, and demands...”

“Demands,” Bilbo parrots weakly.

“Yes,” Balin replies calmly, “demands. Forgive my crudeness, but even if you were a woman, this would have been difficult. But because that's not an option...”

“Oh good god,” Bilbo groans, or at least attempts something marginally resembling those words, and he feels his throat tightening. Are they really having this conversation now?

“Exactly,” Balin offers simply, “you have the time to decide if you're... up for it. If this is something you really want. You can't just expect all of this to get resolved by itself. There will be no time for second-guessing once people start asking questions, I guarantee you that. I'm telling _you_ because Thorin currently has other problems to concern himself with, and...”

The silence catches up with them then. Or rather, the quiet – the King's voice is still clear, if a bit dulled by the mass of the building, but the crowd... it's as if they're not there. Bilbo can't make out the words very well even if he tries, but it's obvious which part of the speech has just come up. He doesn't understand if this is the way to do this, or what _is_ the way to do any of it, anyway, but he can certainly understand the value of a proper shock, and right now, the whole _country_ is shocked. He can only imagine the thousands of eyes glued to the King in all his regal calm, and he knows Thorin's persona is enough to sort of rein the people in, but he can't even begin to imagine the stress he's under. Oh, and the boys, Kili probably clutching Fili's sleeve, or even Thorin's hand for the added impact of the whole picture... Bilbo suddenly feels nauseous for all of them, but Balin regains his attention quickly.

“Think about what I said,” he declares firmly, “decide if you want this. You have time – for now. The Princes will see you at three, remember!”

And with that last bit of information, so casual compared to the rest of his words, Balin hurries off, back inside the large building, and for a minute or two, Bilbo is alone in the garden, and starts running a little short of breath. _This is it,_ a little part of him is trying to tell him, _this is some sort of a turning point you should recognize._ But the trouble is, he can't. He can't, he doesn't know how. It's much easier to tell himself that nothing horrible is happening, that everything is staying still instead of speeding towards some horrible end – if he just stays in this garden a little longer, if he stares at the flowerbeds a while longer, time will stop for him, surely it will...

But then the illusion crumbles as the first people start pouring out from the building, and from around it, seemingly everybody on their phones, no doubt conveying the shocking news further, and Bilbo realizes he doesn't want to see any of that. He has about... wow, twenty minutes, before he has to find his way back to that office and accompany the Princes out of Gabil-Dum and back home, while Thorin sits through what will undoubtedly be a rather hectic press conference, and even though it's nearly impossible, he'd like to try and find Fridda – she said she would be here...

He dials her number as he finds his way through the crowd to get a look at the front yard, and keeps an eye out for Bard and Gandalf – both are undoubtedly here _somewhere_ , and he has no intention of talking to either of them, not now.

“Bilbo!” Fridda picks up, and judging by the ruckus on her end of the line, she must be somewhere in the midst of the crowd in the park.

“Hi. Are you here somewhere?”

“Actually I'm just leaving, Bard asked me to do something for him... Oh, it can wait. Where are you?”

“I'm in the building, but listen, I don't have much time either way, I'll be going back to the Palace shortly...”

“I see, I see... Well, school starts tomorrow, will you be taking Fili? We could talk then, set up a date for that coffee we both keep not having any time for.”

“Yes, I'll be there, I'll be picking him up. Did you get the memo about the...”

“The bodyguards? Yes I did. Tried writing back about their _undesirable effect on a learning environment,_ but I guess I can understand the need for them.”

“Yes, I suppose it's necessary,” Bilbo sighs, “I don't understand what that leaves of my job, but...”

His voice dies down quite on its own, because he sees what he'd never hoped to see ever again in his life – Smaug Bundushar. The man is standing surrounded by quite the crowd, and Bilbo can't really tell which of them are security and which of them are just very well-dressed criminals. Oh, and there's Mister Zundush, Bilbo's personal scarecrow, and his stomach lurches at the sight of him, unpleasant shivers dancing up his spine. His step falters, and his hand slides to his small gun in the holster at his ribs quite involuntarily – Dwalin had him pull it out in one swift motion about five hundred times yesterday, but Bilbo is still not sure he could do it if it were actually needed.

“Yes... yes, I'll talk to you then. Bye bye,” he mutters distractedly at what he hopes is the right pause in Fridda's talking, and she does pause a little bit.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah... yes. No worries. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Alright then. See you.”

“...Yes.”

And he hangs up, and ducks into the nearest open door, his heart hammering against his ribcage quite frantically, and he all but bites off his tongue when he almost runs into the man inside, someone very important-looking chattering quickly on a phone, frowning powerfully when he sees Bilbo, pointing to his phone and uttering the Khuzdul version of 'Do you mind?'. Bilbo shakes his head and backs out, turning the way he came from and straining himself a lot not to start running. He doesn't want to risk peeking back over his shoulder, but surely Bundushar must have noticed him? Oh, this is grand, really. If he just takes that stairwell over there, he'll surely be safe in the second floor...

His breath hitches in his throat almost painfully when a hand lands on his shoulder, and he spins around, almost stumbling, and sees that it belonged to a man that puts Dwalin to shame with both his height and his stern features. In a moment of blind panic, all that Bilbo can think is _at least Dwalin doesn't look like a bulldog. Well, not an ugly one, anyway._

“Mister Bundushar would like to speak with you,” the mountain of a man says with a thick accent, and is joined by who can only be his twin, the two towering over Bilbo until an all-too-familiar voice utters: “That's quite enough. We don't want to cause any more chaos on this momentous occasion.”, and the mountains part, and reveal Smaug Bundushar striding the hallway towards Bilbo leisurely, his hands in his pockets and a truly villainous smile on his face. There are not quite as many people in the hallway as Bilbo would like, and they seem largely unperturbed by the impending doom of this meeting, damn them.

“Can we talk, _Professor_?” Smaug drawls, taking special care with the last word, but Bilbo doesn't need any more reminding of just how dangerous the man is, and how much he knows.

“I don't... I'd rather just go, thank you,” he replies, a bit too squeakily for his liking, “I have to be somewhere soon and...”

“So do I,” Bundushar declares, “I think it's nice we can find time for each other despite our busy schedules, don't you think?”

And he motions for his bodyguards, and they open the nearest door, finding the room behind it empty, and Bilbo's mind is yelling at him to run, but his feet are not listening. Good lord, he's going to die in the Ereborean Houses of Parliament. The office he stumbles into so involuntarily is far too beautiful to be the scene of a murder, and Bilbo watches the people strolling by outside the large window, and wonders if screaming for help would speed this whole process along. Yes, perhaps he would be shot faster. What was that about telling Dwalin 'I won't be followed around by any bodyguards, right?', and the Head of Security scoffing 'Well, if you think you can handle yourself...'? For all his sarcasm, Dwalin believed that Bilbo could take care of himself. Or perhaps he just didn't think him important enough to get into any real danger when he's not with the Princes. Oh well, so much for irony.

“They'll look for me... people are expecting me,” he manages to babble, and Bundushar frowns at him, as if he's disgusted, or almost disappointed by what Bilbo's insinuating.

“And... what?” he replies, “you think they'll find a cold body? Are you always so overdramatic, Professor Baggins? Nice name, by the way, much nicer than _Kevin Kent._ ”

Bilbo gulps dryly before he finds the strength to answer – the bodyguards leave them alone, going to guard the door from the outside, and... dear lord, has Bilbo stepped into a mobster movie of questionable quality?! This is a nightmare.

“If – if anyone has ever given me the reason to be overdramatic, it's you!” he points an accusatory finger at Bundushar, absolutely in awe at the fact that his voice has lasted for that whole sentence.

“What did I ever do to you?” Smaug sighs theatrically, all but throwing his hands up in the air.

“You're joking, right?” Bilbo huffs, “you tried to have me _killed!_ You staged an attack on the Palace just to get to me, and then you... you sent your... person t-to threaten me!”

The man says nothing to that – his eyes narrow and he scrutinizes Bilbo almost curiously.

“You sure do think highly of yourself, Professor,” he says at last, quietly and mockingly, “that attack was unfortunate, but do you really think it was because of _you?_ Who would go to such _horrible_ lengths for _you?_ ”

“You!” Bilbo exclaims, “you would!”

He's not scared anymore – well, not to a debilitating degree, anyway. No, he feels angry now, and anger he can certainly work with.

“You flatter yourself,” Smaug all but chuckles, and Bilbo hisses: “What do you want?”

“You,” Bundushar supplies clearly, and that does catch Bilbo by surprise – he can only stare for a while.

“...What?” he manages.

“I'd like to make you an offer,” the man continues, “provide me with information, and I won't mention the fact that you've been impersonating someone else, and that you and your precious Doctor Grey have been withholding more than a few key parts of this whole mess from the Crown for quite some time now.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but then it hits him.

“That's all you've got?” he says, his voice perfectly level, and Bundushar's features freeze for an almost unnoticeable moment, which is enough for Bilbo to continue: “you must be quite desperate, huh? You can't actually tell anything to anybody, because it would mean they'd start asking questions about _you_ as well. I'm not scared of you, just in case that that's what you were counting on to make this work.”

“Yet again, you overestimate your importance,” Bundushar retorts, but Bilbo actually scoffs, exclaiming: “You just asked for my help! Sounds pretty important to me! And you know what, I don't... I don't care. Important or not, I'm walking away now, and you're going to _let me._ There are far more _important_ people working to bring you down, and I'll be happy to just sit at the sidelines and watch them succeed. Now if you'll excuse me.”

His bravado carries him to the door, but it clashes with the bodyguards there, and proves still a bit fragile, after all. Bundushar is glaring at him menacingly enough to make him reconsider his life choices, but somehow, Bilbo knows he's getting out of here alive, and that's something, right?

“We'll speak again,” Smaug says very simply.

“Right,” Bilbo offers, “I don't doubt that. Just don't _overestimate_ your intimidation skills.”

He's not sure where all that brashness comes from, and for a second there, Bundushar almost looks like he might snap, chest heaving and eyes narrowing, but then, as if he remembers himself, he smiles yet another one of those cold smiles, and gives a small nod to his security guards, who immediately step aside, clearing a path for Bilbo.

“Go celebrate _peace,_ Professor Baggins.”

“While it lasts?” Bilbo sing-songs, even though the better half of his mind is screaming at him to cram it and get the hell out of there, for crying out loud.

“You said it, not I.”

And that's as much glaring as Bilbo can take, really, and he hurries out of the room and away, very nearly running, and thinks, _what is wrong with you?! Antagonizing a person like that, and so openly? Do you_ want to _get yourself killed?_

“Professor!”

He almost squeaks in shock, but it's just Bert, one of the Princes' bodyguards, atop the staircase ahead, motioning him to follow.

“We've been looking for you, where have you been?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Bilbo mutters, a bit breathless after taking the stairs by two, “I just... I got lost. I'm fine. Let's go. The King...?”

“The press conference is starting soon.”

“I see...”

He doesn't know why, but he has the urge to tell someone about what just happened – his mind supplies the idea of telling Thorin, even, but dismisses it as quickly as it came. Bilbo is sure he doesn't need to be told to be wary about Bundushar, and that will have to do for now. Calling Gandalf is out of the question, as is trying to reach Bard – they must both be quite busy, and besides, Bilbo will need a moment of privacy for that, which is something he won't be granted today, he guesses. The adrenaline coursing through his veins is spurring him on, making his mind race, even seated in the car that carries him back to the Palace, and he stares outside the darkened window, unseeing.

He should have confronted Bundushar about Thorin's father, while he was at it. He should have found out more, he sure as hell should not have engaged in stupid _word games_ with a man so profoundly powerful and not in the least nice. He curses his bravado and stubbornness, always spiking at the least convenient times – did he really think a few silly fiery words would be enough to get to the man? _I'm walking away now, and you're going to let me._ Dear god, who is he, James Bond?! _Don't overestimate your importance –_ yes, if Bundushar was right about something, it was this. Bilbo got very definitely carried away, working with a courage coming from who knows where, and he should have just kept his mouth shut, should have... The man essentially asked him to _spy for him,_ though! Did he really expect Bilbo to switch sides so easily? What on earth was his angle?

Bilbo worries don't cease until they're all back at the _Hurmulkezer,_ and he has to divert his attention from political conspiracies and his own life expectancy, and concentrate on the Princes. They want to know when _Grandpa_ is coming, and Bilbo tries to find out more, but Dwalin is gone, as well as Balin, and no one else seems to know anything. Why _was_ Thrain in the Gabil-Dum, anyway? Wouldn't it have been safer to keep him somewhere... well, not so public? Oh lord, here he goes again, concerning himself with things he should leave to the important people. Except... he did promise himself he wasn't going to interfere anymore, wasn't going to agree to help where he could not give it, wasn't going to go on blind faith and very little information. But his curiosity has always been a force to be reckoned with, and he can once again sense it getting the better of him. The lovely meeting with Bundushar has left him all fired up and strangely overexcited, and he finds he can't just... wait, and sit with his hands folded in his lap. Seemingly everybody he meets that day, every member of the Palace staff, wants to discuss the shocking news, and he always offers a word or two, but his mind is elsewhere. He manages to get a hold of Gandalf in the evening at last, right before he's supposed to put the boys to bed.

“How are things at the Palace?” the man asks in his usual cheerful manner, but this time, not even that is enough to annoy Bilbo.

“Hectic, just as you would expect. But listen, Gandalf-”

“Quite the speech, wasn't it? I have to say, I think it was a wonderful idea to make the reveal now.”

“If by wonderful you mean 'absolutely bonkers', then sure. But Gandalf, I need to-”

“Have you spoken to Thorin's father yet? How is he?”

“Gandalf, I actually spoke to Smaug Bundushar today!” Bilbo interrupts his questions hurriedly, and the other end of the line does go silent at that for a bit.

“...Why?” Gandalf asks at last.

“Oh, wanted to have a chat about the weather and he was the only one in the room – why do you _think?_ ” Bilbo sputters, “I ran into him – or, his bodyguards, to be precise – at the Gabil-Dum today, and he cornered me in a room.”

“Are you alright?” Gandalf wants to know, sounding surprisingly tense.

“I'm fine, yes. But he wanted my help! He wanted me to,” Bilbo lowers his voice as he passes through a hall and up the stairs leading to the boys' rooms, meeting a number of maids and other personnel, “ _gather intel_ for him. Made it sound terribly like spying, to be honest.”

“Really,” Gandalf muses, sounding unhealthily intrigued, “he must be more desperate than I thought.”

“Yes, I told him that!”

“You... what? You told him off?”

“...Somewhat,” Bilbo sighs, and to his surprise, Gandalf laughs shortly.

“Your courage never ceases to amaze me. So you... escaped unscathed?”

“Yes, but... well, I mean, that's the problem, isn't it? I told him off. I was very rude – I'm not usually this rude. What if he...”

“What if he comes after you?”

“Yes.”

“Don't worry,” Gandalf says, and Bilbo can all but see his benevolent smile, “I'll look into it. All you need to know is that Bundushar has been quite... well, furious, for the lack of a better word, ever since we got our hands on Thrain. He's making mistakes, approaching you being one of them.”

“That's not very reassuring,” Bilbo offers, standing in the hallway where the Princes' rooms are, but not going any further for now – he doesn't want to start explaining the nature of his call to Bert and Tom, who are standing guard at the door around the corner.

“We'll get him yet,” Gandalf declares, “you stay put. He won't know where to turn first with the elections, and all the court hearings coming, and we'll pin him down when he least expects it. Thank you for calling me.”

“...That's it?” Bilbo says, and when Gandalf responds with an innocent 'Hmm?', he adds, “oh, come on, no convincing me to try and help you? No sending me on life-threatening investigative missions? Are _you_ alright, Gandalf?”

“I'm fine, I assure you,” Gandalf chuckles, “and I think you've made it very clear that I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. No one can, and now even Smaug Bundushar knows that. Extraordinary work. We'll talk soon. Stay safe.”

And he hangs up, just like that, and Bilbo all but glares at his phone – oh, that's very clever, that is. _Extraordinary work._ The last time Gandalf told him that was after he'd confided in him that he'd set up that library in his office back at Bree, consisting entirely of the books the school board had deemed restricted. He can't help it, he feels five years younger – he was hotheaded then, and reckless, and didn't feel even the slightest need for double-checking if his principles were the right principles, because believing in them was enough... _Talk about mood swings,_ his mind supplies grimly when he remembers how desperate and useless he felt just this morning.

He thinks of Thrain, white and frail in his wheelchair, and of Thorin, speaking to the masses and relaying the shocking news, and no doubt withstanding a particularly thorough media massage right about now... He thinks of the Princes and their incredible ability to accept the news that shook a country so effortlessly. He reads them the first chapter of the Red Dwarf novelization, and he thinks of _overestimating his own importance,_ and _enjoying the peace while it lasts._

 _Decide if you're up for it,_ Balin had told him, and he meant if Bilbo was up for being by Thorin's side whatever that entailed, but... isn't that exactly it? Wouldn't being by the King's side always mean facing issues like this? Why did Bilbo ever think he'd have a shot at anything easy _or_ peaceful? Perhaps this is how it's going to be from now on, and perhaps running away from it is not enough – will not be enough, if he wants to convince himself, and the world, that he has what it takes to handle his lot. It seems that he will need to make a firm decision – does he want to cling to the memory of the peaceful, linear existence that he'd pretty much abandoned the second he walked out of his door and let the taxi drive him to the airport six months ago? Or does he want to stop moping and actually _do something,_ something that would allow him to stay here in Erebor? He doesn't have to sit and wait for his world to crumble down, now does he? He can man up and fight, as it were.

He watches the re-run of the speech with his friends and colleagues in the staff building that night, joining the lively debate about the future of the country, and the shocking news in general, and he knows, _knows_ that he can do this. Somehow. Thorin, Fili and Kili are like mirages on the screen of the TV in the corner, and Bilbo watches the King's lips move, but doesn't pay attention to the words – based on the reactions of everyone he's talked to today, they were good words, wonderful words, and he doesn't doubt that. He doesn't doubt that Thorin will handle all this gracefully, and with the dignity he's known for.

He doesn't doubt that he wants to be a part of it.

* * *

**Dictionary:**

_Angladinûn_ \- Englishman

_Azalizu_ \- I remember you

_Dindurjâl_ \- Foreigner

_Ezùhyesh shamukh aimâ_ \- It’s a pleasure to meet you

_Gamilda_ \- Granddad

_Gugûnma tashfat_ \- We’ll be right back

_Inùdoy_ \- Son

_Irmishâlmâ_ \- We need to get ready

_Kulhûn buzunizd?_ \- When are they coming?

_Zirikhzu ubdûkhum_ \- I’d like you to meet someone

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this one took so long. Ages, really. Bilbo finds his courage, and we'll see where that takes him. I hope you enjoyed it! Give it one more chapter (or two, at the rate we're going), and I'll revisit Thorin's POV, to fill in all the (essentially very necessary) tidbits, I promise.


	18. Chapter 18

 

In retrospect, being stupidly brave wasn't exactly the best idea he's ever had. At some point while driving the boys to school on Monday morning, he realizes that he should know better – realizes that nothing is quite as simple as his adrenaline-driven mind pictured the day before. Wearing rose-tinted glasses never suited him. Did he really let himself believe that everything might turn out alright? And... even if it did, what then? Balin's words about deciding if he has what it takes, if he wants any of it at all, have settled heavy in his head, and won't leave him. He had been so... _so_ certain that this is what he wanted. Standing by Thorin's side as he wrestled the issues of the whole country, and continuing to stand there when they'd inevitably move on to, well, their own issues.

Right. A completely natural reaction to a couple of more or less shy kisses after months of orbiting around each other. God dammit, Bilbo Baggins. What exactly has made him think that he has what it takes? What exactly has made him think that he knows how to do this? He feels almost too comfortable in Thorin's presence, and knows that the King feels the same, but it all currently seems... so much bigger than either of them. Thorin doesn't have the time to talk about his _feelings,_ and Bilbo doesn't know how to. Their banter might be effortless enough, but there are still so many things left unsaid – always will be, Bilbo fears. Is he willing to wait for weeks, months, only to find out that he's made a terrible mistake? Does he even have weeks and months to spare?

He's long since learned not to think about his existence in the terms of some predestined grooves – it's much less stressful not to set fixed goals for himself, have a solid job by thirty, a house five years later, settle down, see the world, master six languages before forty, hurry up... Accepting things as they come, pursuing his wants when he has the means to, that's when he's at his most comfortable. That's also, in a twisted sort of way, why he'd decided to run off to Erebor, knowing it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. 

And here he is now, thinking of a future the scope of which is too unreal to imagine, and it's been, what, a little over a week since Thorin and he somehow decided it would be alright and not at all problematic to... _expand on their relationship_? It's funny, how that stay at the house in the mountains and everything it brought along has somehow managed to negate the months before that. Bilbo misses fussing over the Princes' relationship with the King, and he misses meeting Fridda and her friends for coffee, and, god, the Gala and all those other luxurious events... it all seems so long ago, and it's as if the old house full of faded photographs and richly engraved wardrobes and chests somehow condensed all of those memories, made them unimportant. It's as if those three weeks there lasted a whole another year. As if all of them passed some sort of point of no return there, around the table in the kitchen, feasting on sodding blueberry cupcakes, of all things.

Completely lost in his thoughts, he almost misses a red light, and Kili giggles as the car stops a bit too abruptly. Bilbo winks at the Princes through the rear-view mirror, but really, he's checking on the dark-blue sedan following them. The boys' bodyguards are in it, and Bilbo still doesn't really understand the whole arrangement – he is to continue driving Fili and Kili to and from school in his teeny tiny Fiat, but with the added value of Bert and Tom following their every move and each staying with one Prince throughout the day. It's all very safety-conscious, of course, and Bilbo should be that, too, after Dwalin's rather extensive lessons, but why they still trust him to be the boys' designated driver is beyond him. Perhaps Thorin doesn't want him to lose touch with Fili and Kili. Or something. It's all very surreal, and Bilbo can't pretend to understand it – in this case, it's probably sensible to just follow orders and make sure he doesn't forget his gun in his glove compartment.

_ Be prepared to kill, not to maim,  _ is the first thing Dwalin told him when he got the time to teach him a bit more about shooting.  _The only people who can yell 'Stop! I've got a gun!' are policemen and bad actors, and you are neither. Threatening works impressively little, and it certainly won't work on the type of people you might encounter._

Well, it certainly worked on Bilbo himself. But, well, carrying a gun (a ladies model, he understands, and doesn't know why that should bother him) continues to be the least of his worries. What a life. 

They drop off Kili first, the younger Prince rather excited to return to school, dashing out of the car with a swift goodbye, the bag slung over his shoulder almost bigger than him. Bilbo and Fili watch as Bert joins him, an almost comical sight among the children crowding in front of the school building, what with his height and very professional suit. Fili is next, and Bilbo steals glances at him throughout the ten minutes it takes them to drive to his school. He has been quiet since meeting his Grandfather yesterday, and Bilbo can't really blame him. They haven't really had time to talk properly, but he thinks Fili might have some interesting insights regarding the whole situation, and promises himself to ask him about it as soon as possible.

Bilbo can hardly imagine what it must all feel like to the Princes, and what it is that makes them handle all of it so nonchalantly. Fili, especially, is nothing of the closed-off, reluctant wild-child Bilbo met when he first came to Erebor – school suits him, it's made him more open and improved his concentration, but Bilbo knows the job with a boy growing up is never done. It won't be long before puberty starts delivering its nastiest blows, and honestly, Bilbo can predict only very little of how it will unfold in Fili's case. Will he become reclusive and grumpy, or even more rebellious and energetic? Bilbo wonders what Thorin was like when he was Fili's age... Which brings him all the way back around to how little he knows about the King, and so he drops that topic before it makes him miserable.

The front yard of the school is teeming with life by the time they get there, and even though Fili takes his time clambering out of the car at first, he relaxes a bit when he spots his friends, and hurries to them to exchange the first careful holiday impressions. Tom the bodyguard offers a short nod to Bilbo, and then moves on to mingle with the crowd, as much as a man who is over six feet tall and wears a dark suit and a pair of sunglasses can mingle with dozens of loud and bright children and their parents.

Bilbo watches the pleasant chaos for a while before remembering that he's promised to go see Fridda – he is in the process of wondering if right now is a good time, and if he shouldn't come back in the afternoon, when he sees the Principal herself waving at him over from the entrance. She is surrounded by a number of parents, all greeting her and exchanging pleasantries, but she pushes past them very politely, and approaches Bilbo, all cheerful and visibly overjoyed to see him, and only when she hugs him tight does he realize how long it's been since they've seen each other last. 

“Oh, it's so good to see you,” she exhales into his hair, and smells of something sweet and somehow familiar, and Bilbo hugs back, managing not to care about all the people that must surely be watching, replying: “You too. You too.”

She holds him at arm's length then, all but sizing him up and down, and he notices a faint hint of what must be worry in her eyes, before she declares: “Well then. You're in one piece. That's good. Listen, we're starting in fifteen minutes and I'll be saying a couple of words over the loudspeaker, you know, as a welcome, but after that...”

“Oh, I could always come back in the afternoon.”

“Nonsense,” she waves him off, “I'll make you a cup of coffee and we'll talk once I'm done, set up a date for that... date, alright?”

“Alright,” he grins, quite grateful.

He trails behind her into her office, watching the children say goodbye to their parents and hurry off into their respective classrooms, catching one last sight of Fili, surrounded by his friends and about ten times more lively than usual for it... He can't help but reminisce. There is something in the rush and commotion of a regular school day that he's always found strangely calming. No matter the students being late for their classes and handing in papers days after the set date, and the teacher gossip, and the weariness after a ten-hour day, the routine is something that Bilbo could always appreciate. It's not that he misses teaching, per se. At the end of the day, it's a wretched underpaid under-appreciated job when one carries it out at a public school. It's just that... it's connected with a time in his life that was... well, let's face it, much more peaceful. And _that's_ appearing right back at the start, so he'd better forget all about that.

The ruckus is reduced to a far-off hum when Fridda closes the door behind them, and Bilbo gladly takes the seat she offers him, eyes sliding around her office as she struggles with the coffeemaker. There is a number of postcards from various destinations across the world pinned to the board on one of the walls, and Bilbo used to receive those too, from a couple of his students from Bree, even after he left – for a while anyway. A holiday or two. He wonders if Fili and Kili will ever send him a postcard after he's gone. Oh, despondence doesn't suit him.

Fridda excuses herself somewhat last-minute, horrified about this or that document she'd forgotten to print or whatnot, and Bilbo promises to wait for her, of course, watching with some fondness as she hurries away – they are the two of them very similar in some aspects, and Bilbo hopes that spending some time with her might help ease some of his worries.

Speaking of worries, he searches for his planner in his satchel – the Princes' schedule has always been forwarded to his tablet, but he refuses to move all his scheduling and drafting there. As it is, his daily planner is a thick leather-bound thing, overflowing with post-its and other bits and pieces of documents and footnotes that were certainly important at the time he put them in... He likes having something solid to write into, likes the feeling of carrying the thing around, no matter how heavy it's become. Makes him feel at least a little organized.

He flicks ahead a few pages – the farthest entry so far is some sort of lunch the boys will be attending in late October, and because he can't quite help it, Bilbo wonders if there will be any Erebor-related entries after that. Dismissing that, he searches for a suitable date to have that coffee with Fridda outside her office, and the tip of his pen hovers over September 22nd. Why did he mark that day with a little star, again? It genuinely takes him about five seconds to remember. Oh, right, it's his birthday. Well then. Not something one usually forgets.

But then again he hasn't really celebrated it properly... well, for some years now. His mother would make a point of him spending the day at home, and there were presents and food, and it was all rather lovely. Even after her death, he enjoyed celebrating with his colleagues at Bree – somehow, his students managed to find out, and there was that one lovely birthday... was it his thirtieth? They surprised him by wishing him a happy one in the middle of class, and then he spent the night getting drunk on Gandalf's brandy in the lounge, and for just that one night, everyone was actually excited to stay at the workplace after hours... Yes, definitely his thirtieth. Right before Gandalf announced his demise. Ever since then, it's been... more polite phone calls and less drinking. There was always someone to spend the day with, but at some point, Bilbo ceased to assign much importance to it.

He briefly toys with the idea of making some sort of get-together happen this year with his new friends, but then he figures everyone has too much on their plate to worry about that. Before his thoughts can get too gloomy, Fridda returns, and he listens to her give a lovely speech over the loudspeaker, her voice echoing outside the door. He doesn't understand the Khuzdul in its entirety, but it doesn't really matter. There's talk of new beginnings, and luck, and striving for one's best, and Bilbo thinks of Fili listening to all that a few rooms over, and decides that if he's managed to do anything right, it was finding this school for him.

“Right then,” she declares after she finishes, “let's figure something out.”

They spend an impressively long time searching for a sliver of free time in their almost equally busy schedules, but in the end she pushes some meetings around, and he promises to 'get rid' of the duties at the Palace next Sunday. The problem is – and he'd never mention this to her, of course, partly because unless he's giving off some extremely powerful vibe, she doesn't know about him and Thorin yet, partly because he doesn't want to... hurt her feelings – the tiniest part of him is a bit reluctant to spend his free time in the company of anyone else but Thorin, precious as it is. It's very silly, and he knows he _needs_ to talk to her about everything, and so he does his best not to worry about it.

He ponders on taking her up on her offer to stay a bit longer, but knows it's mostly just an offer, and that she is every bit as busy as she looks. The confessions and problems can wait a week. He'll last a week. Somehow.

He drives home feeling a bit strange, what with his duties unspecified until after lunch, no bodyguards tailing him, the King, as you would expect, in this or that vital meeting... In fact, he hasn't seen Thorin since he wished him good luck with the speech – well he's seen his face in countless reports on the telly, each one more shocked than the other. Apparently, the country is in an uproar. And other countries, too, but mostly because Erebor seems to be offering all news regarding Thorin's father only very slowly, a carefully controlled trickle of information. None but a select few (how strange it is that Bilbo is one of them) have actually seen the man at all, and Bilbo doesn't need to be a media specialist to know that that's not exactly conventional. From what he understands, Bard's newspaper is a sort of home base for all the news, and the man himself is hard at work with the TV channels to create some sort of comprehensive overview of the situation. 

Thrain should... what to call it? Appear in public? Show his face? _Confirm his own existence_ by appearing in the media by the end of the week, or at least that's what Bilbo hears. How it will be done, he does not know, and speculating doesn't really suit him – everyone else seems to be more than keen on it, though, and after he made the mistake of telling his friends and colleagues last night that he actually did see Thrain in person, he was subject to nothing short of an interrogation from all of them. It felt a bit like primary school, describing the man's appearance, and the way he talked, and how the Princes liked him, and how the King acted around him... Surreal. So surreal. No, Bilbo didn't know if it was really _really_ him. How could he? No, he didn't particularly look like he'd been through a series of plastic surgeries to alter his appearance. Yes, he was in fact a real breathing talking person, albeit very frail. Yes, he had the Durin nose (Bombur's wife's, Mirjam, had asked that particular question, which Bilbo had understood perfectly, but even if he hadn't, she had made it clear by tapping her own nose and making everybody laugh). No, Bilbo didn't know what was going to happen next. Yes, he had been getting a bit nervous answering all of this... Didn't feel like it was his place. Made everyone swear they wouldn't forward any of that information to anyone else, but had very little hope either way

All in all, he's experiencing this lingering feeling of not belonging. It is unlike the sort of exhilarating anxiety of his first days here, when he was eager to meet everyone and learn everything, but knew he was nothing more than a tiny cog in the massive machine of the Palace. No, this is... having bitten off more than he can chew. People expecting things of him, answers, resilience, _comfort..._ None of which he's sure he possesses, or is capable of giving out freely. Maybe he should really take that holiday. Just a couple of days off. Maybe even leave the country, sort out his thoughts...

Right. Traveling away from his problems was really going to help solve them.

 

The following days bring with them at least a semblance of routine, and it's reassuring. It's also enough for him to realize just how deep in he really is when it comes to Thorin – two, three days pass without catching a single glimpse of him, and Bilbo is getting fidgety, worried, and rather lonely. He half-expects the King to walk in on him reading to the boys just like he did once, or to knock on his door in the middle of the night, but the truth is, he doesn't even know if Thorin's home. Or if he sleeps at all. Or anything.

For all intents and purposes, he should be glad, should use that time to sort out his thoughts, because that's certainly postponed whenever Thorin is near, but he no longer finds any solace in solitude. Too much thinking, too much time on his hands with only his own mind for company, which never ends well. He does his best to concentrate on the more pleasant parts of his current situation – nobody but the boys seems to be demanding his attention, and the days until he gets to meet Fridda are drawing short. And then there's the weather.

Early autumn is just about his favorite time of the year, what with the still-acceptable temperatures and summer lingering in the air, and it turns out it is even more breathtaking in Erebor. Sunlight is ever-present, and lasts so much longer than Bilbo would expect, and the Palace is gilded in bright oranges and yellows when the sun does begin to set at last. Fili and him take a walk through the park and past the cemetery one late afternoon, something they haven't done in ages, it seems, and having managed to convince Tom the bodyguard to give them these thirty minutes of peace alone, Bilbo admires the buzz of hundreds of tiny lives in the greenery, and some of the leaves above their heads only just beginning to gain in color, while the Prince recites to him this or that reading exercise.

Fili's recital has drawn to a close by the time they reach the grave on the hill overlooking the city, and Bilbo lets the boy scale the nearest apple tree without much ado, sitting in the grass under it, wondering if the months since they've been here last feel like a lifetime for Fili, too.

“When is he coming?” the boy asks then, calmly, curiously, without a hint of any sort of strain, and yet, Bilbo senses some sort of vague distress in his voice.

“Who?”

“Our Granddad,” the Prince says, “he said he was going to stay here at the Palace.”

“Oh, soon, I believe,” Bilbo mumbles, “I think the doctors still want to keep an eye on him.”

“So he's still at Gabil-Dum?”

“I think so.”

“Hmm.”

Silence follows, the wind ruffling the leaves and the tall grass alike, and Bilbo plucks out one thin green blade and begins splitting it in half ever so carefully, something he used to do a lot when he was about Fili's age, if he remembers correctly. It's strange, but he finds that doing that, and the fact that the boy doesn't require much of him, simply is there with him, puts his mind at ease.

“Can you play it?”

“Play it?” Bilbo turns to look, and sees that Fili is already climbing down, quickly and expertly.

“Yeah, you know – blow on it, and it makes this sound... My Dad was really good at it. I'll show you.”

Bilbo watches him get his own blade of grass, his face full of intense concentration as he clasps his hands together and stretches and tightens it between his thumbs – he thinks he'll never understand how well the boys have handled their parents' death. They've come out practically unscathed, and Bilbo knows enough about child psychology to still be a little unsettled about that. Fili exhibited pretty much every single sign of emotional trauma when Bilbo first met him, and it's a little hard to believe that all of that has just simply dissipated just because Bilbo has managed to reconcile him with his Uncle. ...Is it? He can't give himself too much credit.

He almost yelps in surprise when Fili blows into his hands and it produces a shrill high-pitched sound, unlike anything he ever expected. 

“Wow,” he comments, and Fili grins.

“Yeah. Try it.”

He shows Bilbo how to clasp his hands together and stretch the grass using just his thumbs, and it requires so much concentration that Bilbo manages to forget his worries for a bit – the frustration when the grass simply flutters against his lips without producing any sound time and time again is very definitely the best means of relaxing right now.

“How do you _do this?_ ” he groans, utterly exasperated, and Fili takes immense pride in being capable of making the grass sing over and over again – well, singing is hardly the correct term for the sound, but apparently that's what it's called in Khuzdul, and Bilbo doesn't argue.

“Maybe it's like a royal skill,” he offers then, “only the line of Durin can do this.”

“No,” Fili laughs, “all kids can do this! Well, Kili can't, but he's too little. Plus, he didn't have Dad to teach him.”

“You teach him, then,” Bilbo suggests, carefully searching for any hint of pain in either Fili's voice or face at his own mention of his father. Nothing.

“I wonder if Thorin can do it,” the Prince continues.

“Oh, I'd like to see him try,” Bilbo chuckles.

“Granddad would have taught him, right?”

“Right.”

“If he can do it at all.”

“If he can't, you could teach both of them,” Bilbo offers absentmindedly, searching for the perfect blade of grass for more exercise, “you could have grass-singing concerts then.”

“Uh-huh. Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

“I'm just...”

It takes him a moment, but then he notices the sudden hesitance, and so he looks up, and sees the boy plucking out more and more grass with abandon, frowning slightly.

“Yes?” Bilbo says more intently, “what is it?”

“...Nothing. Doesn't matter,” he mutters.

“Of course it matters. Come on.”

Fili scowls at the grass he's currently holding, tearing it to teeny tiny little pieces, and Bilbo waits. 

“It's just that...” he sighs, then stops, shaking his head as if he's displeased with his own words, then continues, “it's been ten years, right? Since the revolution.”

“Yes.”

“And I mean... Granddad has been alive this whole time. He told us he's been sleeping for most of it. Like a coma?”

“Yes,” Bilbo repeats, not really sure what more he should say.

“When we went to the funeral,” Fili waves his hands vaguely, and Bilbo doesn't need to guess what funeral he means, “we... they weren't there. Mom and Dad. You know. In the coffins. Because they said... something. I don't remember. Said they couldn't find them, couldn't... get to them, or something. Thorin said...”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs quite involuntarily, because the weight of where Fili's train of thought is heading finally catches up with him.

The Prince glares at his hands some more, then looks up at Bilbo almost expectantly.

“Do you think they could still be there? Somewhere?” he asks, then adds hastily, as if to justify it, “Kili asked me if they were still sleeping. I said I didn't know, and that I would ask you.”

He measures Bilbo calmly, patiently, and what exactly does one say to this? Bilbo toys with the idea of saying 'maybe' and fueling pointless hopes, but that's not his job here. If anything, he's based his relationship with the boys on always being truthful with them. Being direct and straight with children has always seemed to work for him, but he can understand why some people avoid it – it's bloody difficult.

“I don't think so,” he says as gently as humanly possible, “your Grandfather survived because... Because he supposedly had help. Nobody really knows how it happened, but there was a lot of... a lot of careful planning involved. Whereas your parents' death was... an accident. And accidents are not always good, I'm afraid, but they are always, always unexpected.”

“Nobody could help them,” Fili mutters quietly, hanging his head, picking up a twig and prodding the dirt with it repeatedly.

“No matter how much they tried,” Bilbo concedes, “I'm sorry.”

The Prince looks up at him as if he's remembered something, or as if he's surprised by Bilbo's words, but says nothing for a while. Bilbo's always surprised when he expects either of the boys to cry and they don't.

“Are you alright?” he offers, a meaningless question really, but somehow he feels like it's the right time for it.

Fili shrugs.

“Is Thorin alright?”

“Huh... why?”

“Well, I know he's an adult and everything,” Fili rolls his eyes, somehow managing to amuse Bilbo even now, “but it's his Dad. And it's been ten years. He must be surprised, at least.”

“Very surprised.”

“Happy surprised?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say yes, but then he realizes, _I don't even know._ He remembers the tears in Thorin's eyes as he watched his father talk to his nephews, and those were certainly happy tears, but beyond that... The one thing Bilbo can say with absolute certainty is that Thorin is tired. No one, not even a King, can live their life prepared for something like this. Add the strain of ruling a country, the weight of that immense responsibility... _It's a wonder he's still standing straight,_ Bilbo wants to say. _It's a wonder he has the time to even look at me twice._

“Would you be?” he asks instead, and knows it's somewhat dangerous territory, but Fili merely raises his eyebrows, shrugging again.

“You'd think,” Bilbo smiles, scrambling to his feet and beckoning the Prince to do the same, “but I think mostly your Uncle is just worried.”

“He's always worried,” Fili notes.

“I think it's a part of his job,” Bilbo replies lightly.

“I hope he gets paid enough for it, then,” Fili scowls, and grins when Bilbo laughs.

Bilbo watches him brush the bits and pieces of grass and dirt off his trousers, and is reminded that he will be King one day. Twenty years from now? Thirty? Bilbo certainly hopes he won't have to arise to the occasion as early as Thorin did, and that his rule will be much more peaceful. It's quite the strange feeling, watching the next generation grow up. They tell you that becoming a teacher is a little bit about achieving immortality by passing your knowledge onto the children and thus a piece of you surviving as they go on, but Bilbo has always thought it was only a way of fancying up the wretched job.

As far as he's concerned, it's enough to see that the kids can take care of themselves just fine. Sharing the passions he's spent years studying and wants to convey, that happens too scarcely to be adopted as a purpose. The joy of witnessing a child finally understand something you taught them is certainly nice, but the gratification doesn't last either. Back at Bree, he enjoyed the surprises his students always managed to come up with. Their curiosity, their zest for new information, their zest for life in general. Their minds didn't need shaping – they needed pointing in the right direction, and enough space and opportunities to flourish. Back then, Bilbo would have done anything to save them from the increasingly more disturbing climate of the institution that they all once loved, and he spent a lot of time convincing himself that that was his purpose in life, to show them the right way. He's always been good with directions.

And in a way, he thinks as they slowly walk back to the Palace, that hasn't changed. He was willing to go to a lot of risks to give the Princes a chance at the life they deserved. He saw potential in them from day one, and he never could stand that being extinguished, albeit unwillingly. Yes, if he'll admit anything, it's that he's managed to at least assist in setting Fili and Kili on the right path. That's enough. He only wishes he'd stopped there, of course. He could have led a perfectly peaceful life here, by the Princes' side, and days like these wouldn't feel like borrowed time, they'd be a regular occurrence still...

Oh well. Can't have everything, now can he?

 

At least he gets to see Thorin that very night – Thrain is apparently transferred into the Palace at last, in what must be a very careful, secretive way, because Bilbo wouldn't have even noticed if it weren't for Balin mentioning it to everyone at their usual night meeting at the Staff building. Apparently Thrain is now staying on the fourth floor, close to the King's personal quarters, and Bilbo listens to Balin's account of the new security detail in place, and other no doubt very important information, only half paying attention. 

Thrain being here means that Thorin is here as well, and Bilbo feels almost ridiculously exhilarated, and a bit nervous, for a second. And then, later that night after he's had a glass of wine or two, he can't quite go to sleep for the longest time, because the exhilaration is mostly replaced by a weird uneasiness, the less rational part of his mind supplying worries of the 'it's been days, what if he doesn't want your company anymore' variety.

The soft knock catches him entirely unprepared and in the middle of brushing his teeth ( _so goddamn inconvenient,_ is his first thought), and he washes his mouth quickly and hurries to the door, remembering the three seconds it took Thorin to get discouraged and leave the last time. But fortunately he's still there, the shadows of the dimly lit hallway pronouncing the gauntness of his cheeks, and Bilbo has to strain himself not to order him to turn right back around and march to bed.

He only smiles and steps aside to let him in.

“I have a call in about fifteen minutes,” is the first thing the King says, and it sounds so apologetic and tired that Bilbo can't help but chuckle.

“That's fine,” he sighs, “plenty of time for you to fall asleep in this armchair and miss it. I'll take the blame, I promise.”

“Tempting,” Thorin smiles shortly, and as much as Bilbo expects him to slump in the chair in question, he goes to stand by the window instead, gazing out onto the backyard absentmindedly – if Bilbo didn't know better, he'd have to say he looks a bit nervous.

“Is everything... alright?” he tries.

Thorin looks at him a bit dazedly, hands in his pocket, inhaling to say something, then sighing deeply. Bilbo frowns, taking a few testing steps closer, and when the King doesn't protest, he goes to stand by his side – wants to reach out and hold his hand, rest his own hands on his shoulders, or arms, anything, but doesn't push it.

“Surprisingly enough,” the King says, scrutinizing the outside with much more care than a few bushes and a lonely statue of this or that saint bathed in the orange light of a couple of lamps deserve, “everything is... peaceful. Well, not peaceful, there's still that statement on Friday, there will be another press conference, and there's already talk of postponing the elections. It's Bundushar, he's appointed himself a voice of Karkâl's party, and apparently this business with my father is compromising the integrity of the elections...”

“Nonsense.”

“Of course it is. If he thinks I'll let the elections be postponed just so Karkâl has more time to get his people in line, he's got another thing coming. But that's not the point. I expected worse, to be honest. I expected...”

But he never finishes that sentence, and Bilbo stares at him mutely, at his brow creasing with worried lines, and for some reason, he sees an almost uncanny resemblance with Fili in his face at that moment, as silly as that is. 

“I'm glad it's going well,” he says quietly, and Thorin blinks, as if, once again, Bilbo has only just reminded him he's not alone in the room.

“Too well,” he replies, “I had... I didn't sleep for a couple of nights in a row, I think, expecting something to go wrong, expecting... I'm sorry. I shouldn't be... Forget about it. I didn't come here to complain. Originally. I think.”

He looks so genuinely upset about saying too much, over-sharing or whatever, that Bilbo can't help but laugh.

“You do realize I'm glad you came at all,” he tells him, then, braving an almost timid, “I worry about you.”

Thorin's eyes widen, as if that's the last thing he'd expected to hear.

“You shouldn't,” he breathes out, and sounds almost horrified that Bilbo would dare.

“Can't help it, sorry.”

“No, I... You don't get to-”

“What?” Bilbo chuckles, “I don't get to notice that you're working too hard? I don't get to wish you were capable of relaxing for a bit?”

“You don't get to be so...” the King tries, and apparently, tonight is a night of not finishing sentences.

“So what?” Bilbo smiles, “annoying? Obnoxiously nosy? Mother-henning? Oh, all my best qualities going to waste.”

“Perfect,” Thorin offers simply, “you're perfect.”

Bilbo isn't shocked speechless very often, but if anyone, Thorin is certainly capable of achieving that. He gapes at him with what he expects must be a rather dumb expression, and knows he's very, very far from perfect, knows this is very, very bad, but it's not enough to overpower the fondness he's been shocked into.

“You can't just... say things like that,” he manages, his throat a bit dry.

“Can't help it, sorry,” the King offers swiftly, parroting Bilbo's own phrase to him so wryly that Bilbo can't help but huff a short laugh.

“I don't...” he attempts, but apparently it's his turn to run out of words to say.

“This... all of this is probably not what you expected,” Thorin says, one vague gesture of his hand somehow managing to encompass the whole of their predicament as of late, and Bilbo laughs some more.

“ _Definitely_ not what I expected,” he grins, and even though that's bordering on dangerously close to a proper talk, he suddenly doesn't mind all that much.

“I'm always... surprised to find you're still here,” Thorin says softly, and Bilbo knows he's serious, but being amused by his words is much safer than letting them hit with their full intended impact, which is why he chuckles and responds with a light: “Where else should I be?”

“Home?” Thorin all but shrugs, “somewhere safer, more peaceful, with... someone who-”

“Alright, enough, enough,” Bilbo cuts him off, waving his hand, “please.”

And it might be past midnight, and there might still be a billion things that could go wrong, but all that he cares about in that moment is letting Thorin know... well, the truth. The part of it that is important. It's ridiculous, _preposterous,_ that after, well... everything, Thorin would still think that... no. Bilbo might get in trouble later, very soon in fact, but if he ever does end his relationship with Erebor on a less than savory note, he won't have Thorin thinking it was, god forbid, because of him. Well, for the bad reasons, not for the reasons that included Bilbo being a fool in love and managing to convince himself he can actually _help._ Quick, quick, utilize actual words before your mind tangles up indefinitely.

“You know, when I came to Erebor, I didn't expect to stay here for more than, say, a day,” he smiles, and when Thorin cocks an eyebrow, he continues, “yes. Gandalf harassed me into coming here, and at the time I didn't even... It took me _less than a week_ to resign my perfectly boring job and decide to pack my bags and run off to a country I knew nothing about. And that was all before I even met _you._ Well, actually, even after I did, I wasn't exactly sure I was going to... _my point is,_ ” he clears his throat when his words start becoming a right mess, “my stay here has been one unexpected thing after another since day one. And I... I wouldn't have it any other way. I don't... I don't want peaceful. Well, I'd like _some_ peace, eventually, but not if it doesn't... include you. I...”

Thankfully, his voice sort of dies off on its own, and it's for the better, because he doesn't think he could vouch for his words, faced with Thorin's incredibly fond look, tinted with the faintest hint of amusement. But yes, mostly incredibly fond, of the kind one would not expect to see on features as sharp and regal as the King's. Bilbo gulps and shrugs somewhat timidly, and Thorin inclines his head, and it's enough of an invitation.

Bilbo tiptoes and falters when he feels Thorin's breath hot on his cheek, but the distance is closed nevertheless, and losing balance comes quite naturally to Bilbo, of course – the benefit and curse of kissing someone so much taller. He rests one hand on Thorin's shoulder, the other venturing valiantly to settle on his waist. He can feel the warmth and softness of the King's skin under the thin fabric of his shirt, and, well, as far as unexpected goes, Thorin's lips parting as he gasps a bit definitely take the cake. The King's hands are securing Bilbo's own hips comfortably, and so he dares to shuffle even closer, snaking his arm higher so that his thumb can stroke the back of Thorin's neck gently, the other hand splaying flat on the small of his back, pressing gently at the almost incredible warmth...

“I missed you,” Thorin somehow manages to murmur against his lips, and Bilbo smiles, humming his agreement.

Once again, it's very hard to remember why exactly he was so worried earlier. Maybe he should just spend as much time with Thorin as possible – it seems to work wonders on his anxiety. Real-life worries are definitely put on hold, replaced with worries about controlling himself just enough not to let some rather undignified sound escape him. He never expects Thorin's lips to be so warm and welcoming, and they always are. Momentarily, he wonders just how long it's been for him, because Bilbo hasn't kissed anyone like this in... well, quite some time, and it shouldn't feel so natural, shouldn't feel so easy.

Breathing calmly is a bit of an ordeal after they part, his cheeks flushed and burning, but he doesn't want to push too much, despite how enjoyable that might be.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs, his hands slowly dropping to his side until they meet Thorin's, their fingers entwining, and he wonders if it's enough, can ever be enough, the intimacy working so well. If it is possible to base... _anything_ off that.

“I actually... I came to ask something of you,” the King sighs, and Bilbo can't quite fight off the small grin when his voice betrays his... what did he used to call it? Delicate emotional instability?

“Anything,” he replies simply.

“It's... my father,” Thorin explains, his gaze darting away, out of the window again, and Bilbo can't help but notice how reluctant he sometimes is to call Thrain that – probably worried he might render it untrue by simply saying it out loud.

“He asked me if he could see the boys again, now that he's here at the Palace,” Thorin continues, “and I said of course, but I was wondering if you could... oversee that. Not as in...”

“I understand,” Bilbo notes, and Thorin's eyes narrow an almost imperceptible amount when he looks at him, as if he's trying to discover something in his face, some proof that he really does understand.

“Do you think they will be... alright with that?” he asks Bilbo then, almost sheepishly.

“Alright?” Bilbo smiles, “they've been asking me about him almost non-stop this past week. They'll be more than happy to meet him again.”

“Oh?” Thorin's eyebrows arch up, as if that's the last thing he'd expected to hear, “so they're...”

“Handling it very well, yes,” Bilbo says.

He remembers Fili's words earlier today, _do you think they could be there? Somewhere?,_ and decides against telling Thorin about that – he's almost certain the curiosity behind those questions would be misinterpreted as heartbreak, and how much more of that can Thorin take, really?

“They're doing great, really,” he continues, knowing that hearing some more about his nephews always manages to calm the King down a bit, set his mind at ease (what a long road they've walked), “they're both rather excited to be back at school, though Fili is already complaining about the amount of homework. Kili's just glad the drama classes are in session this year as well, I think. Honestly, you don't have to worry about them, they're... happy, healthy, loud as ever... The other day I heard them shouting all the way up here, I think that's a new record.”

Thorin is smiling now, gentle and content, his gaze fixed on their hands still together, and Bilbo knows that that's about the greatest achievement he can wish for.

“Should I wait until after Friday?” he asks, and the King's brow creases in some vague worry at being reminded about the media... whatever, that will be happening then, but it passes quickly.

“Not necessarily,” he says, “I think he'll enjoy the company whenever... and whoever can give it. I don't think he likes his caretakers very much. They all know to let you into his rooms, by the way.”

“Alright,” Bilbo smiles, “I'll see if I can arrange for the boys to visit tomorrow. I think they'll enjoy postponing their homework at least a little bit... or not,” he hurries to add when Thorin frowns slightly, “homework first, Grandfather second.”

“However you see fit,” the King chuckles, and then, infinitely more softly, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Bilbo declares, “if you need anything else, just let me know. Please.”

Thorin opens his mouth as if to actually request something, but then shakes his head, looking away, and it reminds Bilbo of Fili so strongly he has to smile.

“Anything,” he repeats, taking a step closer, and Thorin's eyelashes flutter as he gazes at him, a sight unlawfully endearing and gentle on a man of his posture. Good god, he fills Bilbo's favorite trope to a t, doesn't he? The big tall brooding guy with a surprisingly soft side to him... Fantastic. It's like Pride and Prejudice in modern times, and Bilbo doesn't know whether he should be worried or amused that he's the Elizabeth in this scenario.

“That dinner...” the King mumbles a bit distractedly, probably on account of Bilbo's hand traveling up his forearm slowly.

“Yes?”

“I do... actually plan on having it one day.”

“Oh good,” Bilbo chuckles, “I'm glad that wasn't just lip service.”

“I wouldn't-”

“Kidding,” Bilbo cuts him off cheerfully, “I'll wait.”

“I promise I'll try to think of-”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts again, taking that one last step that separates them from standing virtually chest to chest, “it's fine. You're busy, and, I mean, saying that about anyone else would just be empty words, but... you have a country to rule, for crying out loud. Rule it. Worry about that, and your father, and... not me. I'll be here whenever you have the time.”

That last sentence leaves a somewhat foul taste in his mouth, but he manages a steady smile nevertheless. Still, Thorin frowns a little bit, sighing, heavy and troubled, and that's exactly what Bilbo doesn't want, adding onto his worries, but it's also incredibly touching and a tiny bit amusing, just how much he wants to reassure Bilbo that he really does care, despite the fact that he perhaps really shouldn't.

“I never was too good at... any of this,” Thorin offers a tad unsteadily, and Bilbo is a bit overwhelmed then, by just how much he wants to get to know this side of him, less regal and more awkward and adorable.

“Really?” he snickers, “I think you're doing just fine.”

“That's too kind of you.”

“Excuse me, my standards are impossibly high.”

“I'm... flattered?” Thorin tries, inclining his head.

“Yes, correct,” Bilbo grins.

He's always found the moment right before the kiss difficult, before Thorin. In fact, he's had his fair share of tipsy kisses, and drunk kisses, back in his... well, he can't exactly say _youth_ without it sounding ridiculous. College days. Yes, better. Apparently, he was once considered cute. He thinks he remembers someone calling him 'compact'. But whatever charms he has, he's always utilized them rather unknowingly. Flirting has always been a foreign concept to him. And relationships... too difficult. Investing time in another person, sober and focused? Terrifying. Operating on the basis of... of _flings,_ as much as he hates the term, has always been easier. His overactive imagination and knack for worrying too much have always stood in the way of actually maintaining anything properly... proper. Long-term. There has always been too much thinking involved, judging, forming strategies, fussing over his looks, nerves when it came to physical contact that carried with it a promise of something more serious...

Not so much with Thorin – he still doesn't know where any of this is headed, doesn't know if it should be heading anywhere at all, but somehow whenever they're together, everything suddenly becomes so much easier. Effortless, even. Reaching out for a touch is the most natural course of action, mostly, and maybe once they get to spend more than fifteen minutes together at a time, Bilbo will discover that he's been fooling himself all along, but for now, he's glad for this surprising familiarity.

Wondering if this is their last time, and if they will ever get to have that dinner, comes to him naturally as well, unfortunately. Even more so that they're interrupted before either of them dares move things ahead – the gentle buzzing of Thorin's phone in his pocket is eerily familiar, and Bilbo is immediately reminded of happier times, of dark attics and less inhibitions. Seems eons ago now.

He releases Thorin reluctantly, albeit neither of them need to say a word – the King is sorry to leave, and Bilbo is sorry to let him go, but nothing much can be done about that – and before he goes to bed, he thinks about the proverbial calm before the storm.

And keeps thinking about it still throughout the next day, and especially when he watches Fili and Kili with Thrain in the afternoon – they behave so easily, effortlessly around each other, and Bilbo can't help but feel like he's eavesdropping. Like he's overstayed his welcome. Like something should have happened, unfolded, before Thrain appeared, and Bilbo should have been long gone by now.

There are times, moments, when he almost forgets why he's been worrying so much. He watches Fili push Thrain's wheelchair down the hallway leading to the alcove near Thorin's rooms so that he can at least watch the outside, since he's been advised against going far from his quarters for the time being, and he genuinely can't remember what the dull heavy knot of anxiety in his gut is there for. For that one pristine moment, all that matters is Thrain describing some sort of event he recalls taking place in the gardens below them, and Fili leaning on the window while Kili sits on the ground, both of them listening intently. The hallway is bathed in ethereally rich golden light, specks of dust fluttering in the air, and all that Bilbo can think about is how happy Thorin will be when he learns of just how swell his father and his nephews are getting along. 

But then his phone buzzes, and he's not really needed in the conversation going on, so he steps aside and checks the message. _'Bard at Palace Friday evening, let him talk to you'_ is what it reads, and the number is blocked, but Bilbo doesn't even need to guess. His stomach sinks, and the air is suddenly a few degrees colder. _The calm before the storm,_ he thinks. 

 

He very sincerely ponders staying in the city the next morning after he drops off the Princes – he's sure he wouldn't be missed, and he's also sure going back to the Palace means he'll encounter _something_ unpleasant. He deliberately chooses the long road back, unhealthily excited when he gets stuck in a traffic jam for ten more minutes. He announces himself at the main gate rather reluctantly, and keeps peering ahead, half expecting trouble to be waiting for him in the very physical form of Bard Ibindikhel. He sits in the car for a while in the garage, utterly unwilling to get out and go back to the Palace. Maybe he could spend the day in the park, and in the safety of the Staff building's armchairs... The knock on the window makes him yelp, and he must look particularly harried, because Bofur raises his eyebrows when Bilbo looks at him, grinning and mouthing 'Are you okay?'

Bilbo sighs rather profoundly and clambers out of the vehicle.

“Hi,” he mumbles, “sorry, am I taking up space? Should I park elsewhere?”

“Not at all,” Bofur waves it off, “you were just glaring at the steering wheel so hard it looked like you were trying to set it on fire. Was the traffic so difficult today?”

“You have no idea,” Bilbo chuckles, and he'd much rather launch into a debate about busy intersections and inconsiderate drivers, than have Bofur demand more information about his state – but that wouldn't be Bofur, of course.

“Are you sure you're okay?” the chauffeur continues, “ever since you came back from the... the retreat, you haven't been... yourself.”

“Really?” Bilbo mutters helplessly, absentmindedly, running his hand through his hair.

“Really,” Bofur smiles, and he's one of those people Bilbo can't really fault for caring – he's so endlessly kind it starts out infuriating, but takes a swift turn all the way back to just plain astonishing.

“I'm fine,” he offers, not even convincing himself, “it's just... I have a lot on my plate.”

“I bet,” Bofur nods, “still, I would hate to see you overwork yourself. Remind me, when was the last time you took a holiday?”

“...Never?” Bilbo peeps, and Bofur laughs.

“Exactly. You've been here, what? a year?”

“Good lord, no. Barely seven months now.”

“Really?” the chauffeur cocks an eyebrow, “seems so much longer than that. Still, seven months without a day off, that's not bordering on unhealthy – it's basically the definition of it.”

“It's not... so bad, really, come now,” Bilbo protests somewhat weakly, “the weekends are always less work, and I get to relax with you guys in the evenings, and...”

_ And then in the nights I get to kiss your King sometimes, and as much as I want to keep doing that until the day I die, the outcome tends to be anything but relaxing... _

“Just don't push yourself too hard,” Bofur supplies simply, “we've had a fair share of those here over the years.”

“I... really? In this position, or...?” Bilbo frowns.

“No, no one quite like you,” Bofur grins, “you're special.”

_ You're perfect. _

“Oh, please, no, I assure you, I'm, I'm... perfectly ordinary.”

“Right,” Bofur snickers some more, “perfectly ordinary. Anyway, just... make sure you're still alive by next week, would you? We worry about you. Mirjam says you haven't been eating properly! No wonder one beer always knocks you right out – those are meant to be drunk _alongside_ food, you know.”

“I don't think it matters _what_ you drink that thing along with, it's just that strong,” Bilbo replies, “and it's... so nice of you to worry, really, I appreciate it, but I'm fine, I'm... wait, why next week? What happens next week?”

“Did I say next week?” Bofur inclines his head, smiling a mysterious little smile the likes of which Bilbo doesn't appreciate in the slightest, “I don't know why I said that. Forget it. Just... last. In general.”

“Bofur...”

“Let us know if you're having any trouble, would you? We'd be happy to help.”

“I will, yes, but...”

“Now, don't let me keep you,” Bofur exclaims cheerfully, “lots of work to do! I'll see you in the evening.”

And with that, he disappears into the garage, whistling some peppy tune, and Bilbo glares at his back for a while before exhaling raggedly and shaking his head. Like he needs any more mysteries to worry about.

He slinks back to the Palace very, very reluctantly – the sun is shining brightly, birds are actually chirping, and the last thing he wants is to enter the cold hallways of the Hurmulkezer. Oh, too cold. He almost winces when he strolls into the Main Hall, his eyes readjusting to the sudden lack of light, and he considers turning right back around and walking out again, but before he can do that, he sees Balin striding towards him.

“Good, there you are. Have you got a minute?” the Chief of Staff asks, and Bilbo really wants to say no, but, well...

“Of course,” he replies, “what's the matter?”

He wishes he didn't ask. _His Majesty_ _would like a word_ is not the last thing he wanted to hear, but it makes him very nervous nevertheless, and Balin remains wonderfully vague in his answers to Bilbo's questions as he leads him to the fourth floor – realizing they're headed towards Thorin's quarters only serves to feed Bilbo's sudden anxiety.

There is a camera being set up in one of the sitting rooms, with a whole team of journalists, and a photographer, and someone who looks like a make-up artist, and Bilbo is rather relieved when Balin steers him past all that. Then they pass Thorin's office, and Bilbo's step falters when he catches a glimpse of Bard, surrounded by his people – the man's notices him as well, but he does nothing to indicate he'd like to approach Bilbo, and for his part, Bilbo certainly doesn't mean to approach _him._

Balin makes him wait in the hallway, disappearing past a number of bodyguards into a door that Bilbo knows leads into Thorin's personal quarters, and all he can think of as he watches the distant hurry of groundskeepers and horse riders in the gardens four floors below, is how strange it is he'll get to see Thorin in daylight. _Have we moved on to_ that _stage of our relationship?,_ Bilbo thinks, and it somehow makes him chuckle, albeit a bit desperately. He clears his throat to chase it away when Balin opens the door and invites him in, and by the time he walks inside, the anxiety is certainly back in place.

He is introduced into a rather splendid room, though its beauty is much simpler than he'd expected – it spreads over the width of the floor so that windows line the walls on both sides, and together with the floors of dark wood and the clean, simplistic décor, it creates a clear, well-lit space that Bilbo falls in love with almost immediately. Oh, and there is a fireplace on the far wall there... Lots of books, of course, and, oh yes, a liquor cabinet, and... a kitchen around the corner there? The sofa looks incredibly comfortable as well, even though Bilbo has never been a fan of too much leather... In a way he can't really name, it's all very distinctly _Thorin,_ and he feels strangely comfortable there.

He doesn't even realize Balin has left him there alone until he wanders ahead a bit, cautiously, the polished wood under his shoes not making a single sound, and yet, somehow, his presence is registered.

“Bilbo?”

He's a bit disoriented for a while, because he finds he's alone in the large room, but then he realizes the voice came from behind a door he didn't even notice before, even though it's half-ajar. He trails there, a bit uncertainly, but Thorin comes out before he can get there, shutting it behind him.

“My father's in there,” he explains, “sleeping.”

“Ah,” Bilbo smiles, and can't quite manage more, because Thorin is barefoot, and in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, his tie hanging undone around his neck, and he doesn't think he can take much more than that.

“Thank you for coming,” the King says, “I've... a favor to ask you.”

“Anything,” Bilbo nods, and the complete lack of hesitation with which he tends to approach Thorin asking anything of him these days should worry him, perhaps.

“Well,” Thorin clears his throat, “I have a meeting with Mister Ibindikhel in... oh, how about that, ten minutes. And then an interview, and the big statement doesn't happen until noon. He's probably not going to wake up any time soon, but just in case he does... I mean, he has his assistants, but I don't think he likes any of them very much – he tries to get away from them as often as he can...”

“Do you want me to keep your father company?” Bilbo interrupts gently.

“Do you think you could?” Thorin asks almost sheepishly, as if he's sorry to even demand that, “if you're not busy... As I said, he'll probably sleep some more, so...”

“Thorin, it's fine,” Bilbo smiles, and wants to add _I can't believe you'd trust me with this,_ but says 'I'll be happy to do it' instead.

“I wouldn't dream to ask this of you, but I don't feel like leaving him alone, and he doesn't want to stay in his rooms, and besides, he likes you.”

“He... does? Really?” Bilbo marvels.

“I think so,” Thorin smiles, “but then you're at an advantage – he loves everything and everyone from the United Kingdom.”

“I see,” Bilbo grins, “that's quite a responsibility, representing a whole country, let me tell you.”

“You've been doing an amicable job so far, trust me.”

“Alright, but never travel to the Isles, the image will be ruined.”

“You're the only part of the Isles I need, I think.”

And really, if there's anything Bilbo is willing to call a miracle, it's how quick they are to slide into these effortlessly charming exchanges. Oh, and how easily Thorin can always take his breath away, saying such things as if they were nothing – he called Bilbo _perfect,_ for crying out loud, and didn't even bat an eyelash, while Bilbo's been fussing over it ever since. _You're the only part of the Isles I need._ Good god.

“Now then,” he manages, “enough with the flattery. I'll do my best to look after your father. Get going.”

Thorin arches an eyebrow, and Bilbo curses his mouth, always sharpest when he's feeling the least steady, but then a smile quirks the King's lips, and he relaxes a bit after all.

“Is there... are there any rules here?” he babbles, gesturing over the span of the room, “something I shouldn't touch under any circumstances? Secret doors I shouldn't open, you know, the lot?”

“Not really,” Thorin chuckles, “make yourself at home. Kitchen's over there, make yourself some tea, coffee, read a book...”

“Alright, I'll try my best to pretend like this is just another day at work,” Bilbo grins, “now go on. You're not even wearing socks.”

Thorin casts a baffled glance down on his own feet, but his immediate intentions don't include remedying that, as Bilbo learns when he's pulled in for a kiss, almost chaste, but still rather lovely.

“Socks,” he murmurs.

“Right.”

He watches the King walk away and back into his bedroom, unable to get rid of a silly smile, and he feels a strange mixture of exhilaration and nerves – he won't go exploring every nook and cranny of Thorin's rooms once their inhabitant is away, of course not, but there's something exciting about even being allowed in here in the first place. At being _trusted_ enough to be allowed in here.

He leaves his satchel on the floor by the sofa, and wanders to the windows – the view they offer is rather wonderful, and unlike anything Bilbo could hope to see from any other part of the Palace, he realizes. Thanks to the sheer berth of the windows, he can see as far as the fountain on the far corner of this wing of the building, and overlook the vastness of the gardens and the park, the bushes and flowerbeds, benches and walkways and statues all forming a colorful mosaic deep down below. The other wall provides a view of the backyard and the atrium in the center of the Palace, and Bilbo watches people scurry here and there, tiny and so, so far away, and he feels a bit... detached. Again, like he almost doesn't belong. The next thing he knows, a heavy hand rests on his shoulder, and when he turns to look, Thorin is inches away, and Bilbo slides one arm around his waist, and gives into the embrace easily, not even thinking about it twice.

He doesn't know how, but he finds safety there, as momentary as it may be – the fabric of Thorin's suit is cool against his cheek, his arms around his shoulders firm, but tender, and the scent of his cologne rich and reassuring. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, Bilbo feels like letting go, feels faint and weak and years younger, and knows that this is the very definition of his lovesickness, but can't really bring himself to care.

He wants to at least try to say something half as nice and profound as Thorin always does when they step apart, but he chuckles instead, because the King's tie is still undone, and it is in such a stark contrast with his... everything. Bilbo's hands travel to fix it, and Thorin doesn't even protest. Bilbo can feel his eyes on him, and he thinks _oh no, you're developing rituals._

“There,” he says evenly, “now go.”

Thorin eyes him a while longer, then offers a short smile.

“I'll be back before noon. Balin is just outside, if you need anything. Someone will stop by to check on my father, but he doesn't take any more pills until after lunch, so that's that... When are you supposed to pick up the boys...?”

“Not until two,” Bilbo smiles, “don't worry.”

And oh, doesn't that give him an excellent excuse to dodge Bard? Well, this is certainly shaping up to be a much better day than he'd originally anticipated.

“Thank you,” the King says earnestly.

“No problem,” Bilbo's smile broadens, “now go. Good luck.”

Thorin tucks his tie in place, smoothing down the front of his suit, and then he's gone, Bilbo catching a glimpse of the ruckus in the hallway, but when the door closes behind the King, the room is, once again, very quiet. Bilbo stands in the middle of it, unsure what to do, for what might be minutes or an hour, before he finally decides to explore, at least a little bit. The kitchen is there mostly for show, he thinks – it has a distinct air of... well, not being used very often. The fridge is, yes, almost empty, save for some basic groceries and a couple of bottles of beer, and Bilbo realizes he has no idea how on earth Thorin manages to eat during the day. He imagines he'll start joining the Princes for lunch on the weekends again, but besides that, he spends most of his time in his office, or in meetings, or traveling, and Bilbo feels... immensely sorry, and, inexplicably, a bit angry. Who can live like this? He should really see about making Thorin take breakfast with the Princes every now and then, at the very least...

Worried about making too much noise were he to put the kettle on for coffee, he settles for a glass of water, and goes about exploring the bookshelves (dusty philosophers, political essayists, or history books mostly, in Khuzdul, English and German – Bilbo realizes he's never heard Thorin speak German or French, even though he knows he's fluent in those languages, and he promises himself to remedy that as soon as possible, because _come on_ ). He notes the distinct lack of plants, and anything else that would make the place feel more... lived-in, and he imagines Thorin stumbling in at some horrible hour deep in the night, kicking off his shoes and just landing on his bed face first, falling asleep the second his head hits the pillow... His curiosity about the bedroom is really strong, but he supposes he won't be getting a peek in there any time soon – he wouldn't dare.

After some more aimless wandering and gazing at small paintings of various landscapes, he settles on the sofa, whipping out his tablet and deciding to at least check his e-mails. He ends up scribbling into his planner and rearranging the boys' schedule, completely lost in thought, and so it takes him a while to notice the sounds coming from the bedroom. As he hurries there, it becomes more obvious that it must be Thrain struggling with his wheelchair. And indeed, the man is trying to wheel himself away from the window and out of the room, but he obviously lacks the strength.

“H-hello, sir,” Bilbo announces himself, “let me help you!”

Thrain looks up at him, a bit bewildered, but then he sighs, uttering this or that displeased notion in Khuzdul.

“This thing,” he declares, “is impossible to... operate. Is that the right word? Operate?”  
“I think so,” Bilbo smiles, grabbing the handles and pushing, surprised at the lightness, “maybe we could get you one of those electrical ones?”

Thrain dignifies that with a 'hmph', and unsure of where he should steer him, Bilbo stops by the row of windows.

“Can I get you anything? To drink, to eat?”

“Some tea would be nice,” the man says slowly, as if he's only just testing each word, “they tell me I should... eat as much as I can, but it's... not as much fun as I remember it to be.”

“Maybe you just need a better cook,” Bilbo offers lightly, and Thrain's eyes narrow, but then he smiles – he's even less predictable than his son, Bilbo thinks.

“Will you be fine here?” he asks, “while I go make us tea?”

Thrain's look slides from him to the view below them, and taking his time, he sighs 'Yes.'

Bilbo watches him a bit nervously for a bit, but then he decides it'd be best to just go about his business, and when he returns a couple of minutes later, the wheelchair hasn't moved an inch.

“Thank you,” Thrain says when Bilbo hands him the steaming cup,  and brings it to his lips to blow on it, but frowns at the outside instead, stuck like that long enough so that Bilbo starts worrying a bit, before declaring: “Nothing is how I... remember it. You know, there used to be a  _ danukîn _ _ ...  _ a...”

“A lawn,” Bilbo supplies helpfully.

“Yes, a lawn, down there,” one long, bony finger encompasses the whole width of what is now the tiled veranda on the far end of the garden below them, “and we used to have... horse riding competitions there...”

“Yes, I remember,” Bilbo smiles, and when Thrain scowls at him, he hastens to add, “you told the boys yesterday.”

“I did?” Thrain inclines his head, “oh... I did. The boys. Yes... thank you. For bringing them to see me.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, sir,” Bilbo smiles.

“Such nice boys,” the old man sighs, “Dís raised them well. Did you know my Dís?” 

“I'm... I'm afraid not,” Bilbo stammers, “I haven't been here quite so long.”

“How long?” Thrain asks.

“Ah, erm... about seven months, sir.”

“Seven months,” he repeats, “and they tell me it's been... three years now since she died, but I don't see... numbers have no meaning for me. Seven months. Three years. Ten years. I was here for... none of it. You see?”

But he doesn't look at Bilbo, and doesn't even expect an answer, he figures.

“The only evidence of the ten years I have, is my own body,” Thrain continues, and Bilbo shudders quite unwillingly, sipping on his tea carefully, feeling an uneasiness creeping into his joints as the old man mumbles softly, without a hint of remorse, “ruined thing. Didn't even get to ruin it myself. And my son is King. My daughter dead. The USA has a black president?”

“Oh... yes, yes that's true.”

“ _Ughvashmez_ _,_ ” Thrain shakes his head, and then laughs to himself quietly, and Bilbo wonders if that ability to just... _deal_ is a family trait. Must be.

“If you don't mind me asking,” he says as politely as possible, but Thrain raises one hand before Bilbo can finish.

“I slept... for ten years,” he offers, “I have not... used my voice in ten years – is that the correct tense? Have not? Ah, _ghelekh._ Ask me questions. Tell me everything. And if you could... take me away from the window, please? I think I... remember having a fear of heights.”

 

And so Bilbo spends the most extraordinary hour he could ever have imagined, simply just telling Thrain about whatever he can think of – a quick overview of the world's politics, or as much as he can remember and piece together. A lot about Britain, which the man really does seem to be immensely interested in. A brief brush over culture, Thrain frowning and shaking his head over the many titles that have become popular over the years. But mostly, Bilbo describes his own stay at Erebor, in the tiniest details, and feels like he's reliving it all – not entirely in a bad way. He talks about meeting the boys for the first time, and about the staff, and about getting to know the city, about the Gala... 

Thrain seems to be content to just listen, sipping on his tea slowly, nodding and interjecting only very little, but then Bilbo asks this or that completely innocent question, or perhaps mentions seeing some photographs of the family in the olden days, and that prompts Thrain to start speaking himself. Bilbo understands that he doesn't remember very much from the time directly before his injury, or simply doesn't want to revisit it, but he's perfectly happy to listen to the man's account of the country of some fifteen or twenty years ago, when all of the current trouble was miles away. 

He learns dozens of names he can't hope to remember, and probably a state secret or two, and it's mostly just bits and pieces of information, really, as Thrain's memory doesn't really serve him all that well, and he's still struggling to speak in English (even though he immensely enjoys the challenge, as he's determined to show), but Bilbo is utterly fascinated either way.

The man seems to be sorting through his memories as he goes, and Bilbo understands that talking about them out loud is somehow important to him – perhaps makes them feel more real. Thrain is mostly an incredibly calm speaker, slow and controlled, and capable of capturing Bilbo's full attention despite his state – he thinks he could listen to him all day, and at times he feels almost sorry he's not taking notes. Someone should definitely write a book about all this, and no doubt someone soon will – when he mentions that, Thrain simply laughs.

“We had writers,” he declares, “Alvar Gabilaz, he was one of them...”

“Oh, Theo Gabilaz is a talk show host these days, maybe he's his son?” Bilbo offers.

“Maybe,” Thrain chuckles, “and then there was, oh what was her name... Lucia? Lorna?”

“Laura Ibindikhel?” Bilbo supplies.

“Yes, that's the one! Do you know her?”

“I read her book about the old Crown,” Bilbo says, “but she is... I believe she died shortly after the revolution. Her son is here today.”

“Oh,” Thrain sighs deeply, “she died. Was it because of... Bundushar?”

“Because of – who now?” Bilbo all but chokes on his own spit.

“Smaug Bundushar,” Thrain pronounces the name much like his son tends to, with an almost visible disdain, “the revolution happened because of him, and he has the gall... the gall? Yes, the _gall_ to return here now, as if he didn't cause enough trouble for me and my father, he's now causing trouble for my son...”

“Excuse me, but... Laura Ibindikhel was trying to... bring him down, wasn't she?” Bilbo asks the first question to come to his mind, and Thrain frowns almost menacingly, but then he seems to shrink in on himself in the wheelchair.

“Yes,” he utters, “we all were. He thought he'd gotten us all, didn't he? Laura was the journalist, you know, she was... she had all these ties outside the country, she was our one hope, if she'd escaped she would have had enough material to...”

The man slips seamlessly into Khuzdul then, and if he wasn't making much sense before, Bilbo has certainly lost all idea of what he's talking about now.

“More tea?” he asks a bit uneasily when Thrain goes quiet to catch his breath.

“I told Thorin,” the man says in response, “ _ î _ _ zhibag ki  _ _ aggîn _ _ . _ ”

“The... the pattern is repeating?” Bilbo attempts a translation.

“Yes. They don't want to tell me how I survived, but I think it was her. Laura Ibindikhel saved me. Before she died, you see, she saved me. The Smyths ran away, and Bifur was missing, and so Bundushar thought he'd gotten us all...”

“The Smyths,” Bilbo parrots somewhat faintly, “and Bifur... Bifur Abkhûz?”

“Yes, that was the name, thank you,” Thrain sighs, “he was our inside source, you see...”

“I thought he was a miner,” Bilbo peeps weakly.

“Yes, he was, Thrain laughs, “best of the best. Oh, I would so like to speak to _him._ He is also... dead now?”

Bilbo gapes into the old man's eyes, nothing but curious, ten times more alive (with all the ghosts of the past, ironically enough), and slowly but surely, he feels the ground under his feet slip away. He thought he was out. Oh, he actually thought he could grab just a little bit of peace for himself. _The calm before the storm,_ he is reminded for about the hundredth time that day.

“Actually, I think he's...” he begins, but that's when the door creaks open, and Thorin and Balin stroll inside, and Bilbo's mouth clamps shut, and he can't for the life of him get out another word.

For his part, Thrain seems unfazed – he's probably just glad he got someone to talk to, and that's what Bilbo tells Thorin, somehow managing to describe just how amazing his father was without his nerves getting the better of him. He wishes them good luck with the public statement and hurries away as soon as he's able, not really wanting to run away from either Thorin or Thrain, but from the rising sense of both doubt and curiosity that he can just _feel_ building up again. _You don't need this,_ he hisses at himself, _stay away. For crying out loud, just stay away-_

He quite literally runs into Bard Ibindikhel on his way down the hallway from Thorin's quarters, and he's sure he actually swears out loud, but the journalist is simply grinning easily.

“Hi, Bilbo,” he exclaims, “do you have a minute?”

“Actually, no,” Bilbo replies swiftly, “I really don't, I need to go pick up the Princes from school, but listen... God, you know what? I'll call you.”

“Are you alright?” Bard asks him, and that's the second person that day, but Bilbo feels like it's the only question anyone ever asks him anymore.

“No, not really,” he grins somewhat manically, “but seriously, I have to go. I _will_ call you! Or Gandalf! Or someone!”

“Is there something I should know?” Bard calls after him, and Bilbo half-groans, half-laughs, shouting back: “So much! So much you should know!”

_ And so, so much I wish I didn't. _

 

* * *

** Dictionary: **

_îzhibag ki aggîn_ \- the pattern is repeating

_Ughvashmez_ \- Extraordinary

_Danukîn_ \- Lawn

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Yet another chapter that got a bit out of hand, both with the wordcount and the... ehhh, content in general. We're getting somewhere. The idea is one more Bilbo's chapter, then one Thorin's chapter and then drama! Emotions! Plot points! Also I've been asked to compile a dictionary of the whole fic, so I might do that, that would be helpful, right? Thank you guys for your continuous support, and let me know what you think!


	19. Chapter 19

 

“You _what?!_ ”

The little downtown coffee shop is empty enough so that Bilbo felt comfortable confiding in Fridda some of the more... delicate details of the days (weeks, really) that they hadn't seen each other, but the few heads of the other customers rise nonetheless at her genuinely shocked expression, and Bilbo tries to sink as low into his chair as possible without sliding off under the table.

“Shush, would you?” he pleads, “it's nothing, it's...”

“ _Nothing?_ ” she cries, then, remembering herself and clasping her hand over her mouth, more quietly, “nothing? You're joking, right? This is... I mean, this is just... Well, not that I didn't see it coming, it's just that-”

“You _saw it coming?_ ” it's Bilbo's turn to interrupt her hastily, “was it really so obvious to everyone but us?”

“Bard and I had our speculations,” she offers casually, and grins when he groans.

“Lovely.”

Her smile broad, she leans back in her chair, sizing him up and down, and she looks entirely too happy for Bilbo's liking.

“This is just so incredible,” she says, “have you been... I mean...”

“Do you mean have we been continuing this even after coming back to the Palace?” Bilbo finishes her sentence reluctantly, and when she nods eagerly, he opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Well, nothing but yet another rather desperate groan, and when she exclaims in joy, he resists the urge to bang his forehead against the table, gently but thoroughly.

“This is just... _so_ wonderful,” she decides, “I mean what with everything going on, it must be so... Have you talked about how...? And how do you keep it...?”

Bilbo listens to her half-finished questions and watches her vague gestures with much dismay.

“First of all,” he declares when she stops to catch her breath, “this is _everything but_ wonderful, alright? I mean, it's... it's wonderful enough, but it's also, it's... immensely stressful. _So_ stressful. No, we haven't talked about... anything much. No, stop, not like that! We do _some_ talking, just not the important kind, I... oh god, stop looking at me like that, you know what I mean.”

The grin is still plastered across her face, and he can feel the brush creeping into his cheeks. He needs to tell her what he actually wants to tell her before this turns into some sort of a gossip session.

“I'm... scared,” he admits in a much weaker voice than he'd fancy, and her expression changes immediately to that of concern, which reassures him, oddly enough, and so he continues, his fingers fiddling nervously with his cup of coffee, his napkin, anything he can get his hands on really, “there is... _so much_ going on right now, and nobody... nobody tells you what to do. Well, they tell me I should... decide if I'm up to it, you know, if I really... really want this, but how on earth am I supposed to decide that? I keep... I keep seeing him for about twenty minutes a day, sometimes not even that, and it's not enough to... You know? I can't just... I can't make _informed decisions_ living like this, I can't...”

His voice kind of stops working all on its own, and it's probably for the better – eloquence seems to be failing him today.

“Well, what do you want?” she asks him, and when he blinks at her in confusion, she inclines her head, cocking an eyebrow, nothing of the excited schoolgirl learning about her friend's first crush left in her expression, replaced with exactly the calm he'd wanted to find in her company.

“That's the only thing that matters right now, I think,” she adds, “you need to... _the two of you_ need to decide if the other one's worth the worrying. Good _god_ I can't believe I'm saying this, it sounds so cheap. But you get my point.”

“I... think?” Bilbo peeps.

“And?” she smiles, “whoever told you to decide if you're up for the task was right, you know. It's probably not just going to miraculously stop being difficult after the current events blow over. I mean it's _the King_ for crying out loud...”

“Hush, yes, I know,” Bilbo hisses, scrutinizing his surroundings with much suspicion. For her part, Fridda just seems slightly amused.

“So?” she notes, “is this what you want?”

She holds his gaze, and he sighs profoundly.

“I don't even know what _this_ is,” he mumbles, “you know? I want... I want peace. Just peace, from all this chaos, and, and uncertainty, and... oh, and I'd very much like a longer than twenty _sodding_ minutes at a time to... you know. Oh, and eight hours of dreamless sleep every once in a while. Also, no more lying.”

“Lying,” she repeats, with the faintest intonation of confusion.

“Yes, lying... Honestly, has everyone else forgotten what happened?” Bilbo exclaims somewhat desperately, “I talked to Bard yesterday, you know, and when I said I wanted him to please at least try and resolve it, he asked what, and said ' _Oh that_ ' when I reminded him. _Oh that._ I've had my life threatened, on _multiple occasions,_ I posed as someone else, on _multiple occasions,_ I lied to the people I care about, on _so many occasions,_ and he rewards that with an _oh that._ I'm tired of this, Fridda. One of these days, it will all come spilling out, and it won't matter what I want. Nothing will really matter anymore.”

She gazes at him somewhat taken aback, and he realizes a bit too late he might have gone slightly overboard.

“I'm sorry, I...” he mutters, waving his hand to support whatever his statement was going to be, then hanging his head when he fails yet again at forming proper sentences.

“Bilbo,” she says softly, reaching out and patting his hand on the table, and it's enough to make him look up again.

“Sorry,” he utters.

“You shouldn't apologize,” she notes, “and what do you mean you had your life threatened? What on earth happened?”

She's keeping her voice down, they both are, and yet a wave of nauseating paranoia washes over Bilbo when a customer gets up from his table on the other side of the cozy room, his and Bilbo's eyes interlocking for a fleeting moment before he walks out.

“It's nothing,” he says, “nothing.”

“Oh, just tell me, would you?” she sighs, and he frowns at her, but she adds firmly, “you should let someone worry about _you_ for a change, you know. Come on.”

And so Bilbo talks. Reluctantly at first, of course – he's never been one for complaining. In fact, they very idea of confiding his problems in someone fills him with a strange sort of fright, and uneasiness, and guilt, all at once. Most people have enough of their own troubles to sort out to worry about someone else's, is what he's always thought. The concept of _sharing the burden_ never really appealed to him – he doesn't mind listening, and offering advice when it comes to other people's problems, but that's only because it allows him a moment away from his own... But he has to admit, as time goes by, and his cup of latte empties, he's beginning to see some of the benefits of having someone he can unapologetically whine to.

He talks about the whole of their stay in the house in the mountains, about the strange mood he'd spent the majority of his time there in, the anxiety and, at the same time, the almost debilitating apathy he remembers feeling after the incident in the city after Thorin's speech, where Smaug's man approached him and he ended up literally losing his consciousness as a result... He struggles with feeling incredibly pathetic as he goes, but Fridda doesn't seem to think so – in fact, she looks almost horrified and very definitely worried, and Bilbo doesn't quite know how to feel about that. If he's even allowed to feel... relieved.

Encouraged by a piece of cheesecake, he describes to her his warring feelings about Thorin and his father, and Thorin in general, and how nothing's really felt the same since they came back to the Palace, and somehow, they find themselves right back where they started.

“...And that's why I called Bard yesterday,” Bilbo declares, “I mean, Thrain wasn't... wasn't making much sense, but still...”

“And what did Bard have to say about it?” Fridda leans forward, “did he know if what Thrain had said about his mother was true?”

“No, he just said he'd look into it,” Bilbo shakes his head, “seemed really excited about it, though... Wait, he didn't tell you? I thought you were...?”

“Oh, we are. We are,” Fridda replies quickly, blushing a little, “it's just that... I haven't spoken to him since before he went to the Palace for all those interviews. Nicely done, by the way, don't you think?”

“Hmm,” Bilbo agrees.

He had spent the evening watching the big reveal with his colleagues in the cafeteria, curled up in an armchair as everyone else was ooh'ing and ahh'ing over what was nothing more than a couple of seconds of footage of Thorin and his father in the King's office, all very clean and neat and professional-looking... But while the reporter chatted away about the 'understandable need for personal space' and 'the integrity of the Crown' (the flashbacks were there, and they were intense), all that Bilbo was able to think about were the words the old man had said to him, about patterns repeating and whatnot, and...

He knows curiosity has never sprouted anything good for him, especially these days. He knows he should be staying as far away as possible from more mysteries and such, and yet... He can't quite help himself – he hasn't been able to concentrate properly since his talk with Thrain yesterday. He does his best to convince himself it's because the man was such an excellent storyteller, which happens to be true, but completely irrelevant. No, the truth is, the second he'd heard Thrain mention Bofur's cousin, a part of him _knew_ this was going to escalate... He'd even asked Bard too keep him posted, for crying out loud! _Peace. Yes, well, if peace is what you really want, Bilbo Baggins, you might want to reconsider your approach to this situation._

He doesn't imagine he'll succeed at explaining to Fridda the uniquely horrifying mixture of guilt, in front of both the King and the Princes, and the confusion, and the almost boundless anxiety, and then the momentary lapses of all common sense when he almost forgets everything that's been happening to him lately, and believes in the impossible again, if even for a while. But alas, she never fails to surprise him, and says something that gives him pause, if shortly.

“You are such a worrywart,” she grins, and it takes him by surprise, because he'd just spent the last five minutes very seriously contemplating his future in words that a number of his old profs wouldn't hesitate to describe as 'unnecessarily pompous', probably – stringing together complicated sentences calms him down and gives him the time to think _while_ he speaks, so sue him.

“I am... am I?” he babbles, and Fridda sighs.

“Yes, you are. Look at you worrying about things you shouldn't waste your time worrying about.”

“Fridda, the majority of my stay here has been literally comprised of worrying about things I shouldn't be worrying about,” he replies dryly, “that's what got me into this mess in the first place.”

“What if there's no mess?” she offers simply.

“What do you... what does that even mean?”

“What if there's no mess?” she repeats calmly, “what if you're the only one seeing all of this as one massive horrible problem that won't go away? What if Doctor Grey and his people... do what they do, and the elections happen when they should, and Bard strikes lucky, and Bundushar just goes away? What if all of this just... works out?”

He gapes at her wordlessly for a moment, because he can't be quite sure if she's serious – he's never been too good at telling that.

“You're joking, right?” he says at last, quietly, “you know it's not that simple.”

“No, you _think_ it's not that simple,” she counters, “you and I both know you've been through enough. And it's difficult, and you're clueless and scared, and I get it, but Bilbo, nothing is as bad as it seems. Maybe your world won't come tumbling down if you come clean-”

“Hold on, hold on, do you think I _should?_ ” Bilbo interrupts her, a nasty shudder dancing up his spine.

“I'm saying it might not be so... horrible. Life-threatening. I understand you think you're protecting the King-”

“You understand I'm protecting the – did Bard put you up to this?” Bilbo retorts, “what does he want? More drama to write his Sunday headlines? Hasn't there been enough?”

“Bard didn't _put me up_ to anything,” she responds, her voice level and carrying just enough of a cool edge to make Bilbo regret his words.

“I-”

“Just listen to me,” she says firmly, if fondly, “you are obviously beyond stressed, and I hate seeing you like this. And you are right, maybe the royal family couldn't take anymore surprises and sudden revelations. But I can't help but wonder how much more _you_ can take. Don't beat yourself up over something that's not your fault-”

“Not my fault... Fridda, the attack-”

“You don't know that,” she declares sternly, then, leaning in closer to make sure he's really paying attention to her, “you don't. No one should be walking around carrying this sort of doubt. You've found something truly amazing along the way, and you should concentrate on that. He might need you, and that's all good and noble, but don't make the mistake of thinking you don't need him as well. You might worry, but if he's anything like I imagine him to be, so does he. For all the wrong reasons, nonetheless.”

Bilbo reclines in his chair, suddenly feeling a bit exposed and vulnerable for some reason, and she holds his gaze relentlessly until his shoulders sag and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You're right about one thing,” he mutters, “I don't think I'll be able to keep this up for much longer.”

“Then don't.”

_ Then don't.  _

“That's easier said than done.”

“Alright, then let me put it another way – put a reasonable end to it, before you burn out and it all resolves utterly horribly, and without your control. How does that sound?”

“Not exactly reassuring,” he peeps, and she smiles.

“You know I'm here for you if you need to talk. Whenever you need it.”

“I know, thank you.”

They let silence take over for a fleeting moment, Bilbo stabbing what's left of his cheesecake with his fork rather absentmindedly while Fridda checks her phone, but it really doesn't last long.

“That's Bard,” she waves her iPhone at him, “he'll come by in about ten minutes. You could be long gone by then.”

“I appreciate the warning,” he chuckles, but pauses when he realizes he doesn't know what his next words were going to be.

“I think I'll... stay, actually,” he adds, dead certain that he'll regret that decision at some point.

“Really?” she smiles, “awesome. He's bringing some files from the Azanulbizar Archives for us to look over, about... about my grandparents, mostly, to find out what connection exactly they had to the old King...”

“Can't you just ask your grandmother?” Bilbo wonders, and she frowns almost imperceptibly, but it's there – Bilbo's too good at noticing the nuances of emotion by now.

“She's... reluctant to share,” Fridda admits, “says it's dangerous, and that it doesn't matter anymore. She doesn't know about me trying to find out more... god, she doesn't even know about me and Bard. You see,” she smiles rather somberly, “I do know what it feels like, going behind someone's back.”

“But didn't you once say she was... invested in all this?” Bilbo remembers.

“Oh, she's invested alright,” Fridda nods, “Nana's an avid supporter of the monarchy, always has been, and she's very anti-Bundushar, I can tell you as much, but other than that... She has a lot of resentment for the time before the revolution, gives lectures at the University about the impact of communist regimes throughout Europe, and she's _definitely_ the type to have gone all rebel-leader slash guerilla during Azanulbizar, but she never tells me much. I'm hoping the files Bard finds might give me some answers.”

“Answers,” Bilbo sighs, but doesn't continue whatever that sentence was going to amount to, and she probably doesn't expect him to.

Instead, they spend the next couple of minutes in casual conversation about Fili's progress in school, and about their favorite types of pie, and about, oddly enough, clothes, and Bilbo is beginning to feel rather relaxed. Maybe Fridda is right – he does have a knack for stressing out very intensely about things that might turn out much better if he just knew how to take a step back and calm down for a bit.  _And_ he's incapable of including other people in his worrying, which might be the core of a vast majority of his problems, let's be honest...

The brass bell above the entrance tinkles, and in strides Bard, looking very much in a rush, his suit jacket draped over his arm and his satchel overflowing with what must be the files Fridda had mentioned. His face lights up when he notices her waving at him, and turns into positively overjoyed when he sees Bilbo, who offers a nervous nod and a little wave.

“Bilbo! Good to see you here,” the journalist exclaims, “ _ âzyungel _ _ ,  _ did you manhandle him into staying here to meet me?”

He bows to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, and she chuckles, squeezing his arm and taking his jacket so that he can pull up a chair to the table.

“I did no such thing. We had a lot to talk about, and then you just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Really,” Bard grins, granting Bilbo a meaningful look – not really knowing how to respond, he simply shrugs, and Bard laughs.

“Well, I'm glad you're here,” he says, “thank you for that phone call yesterday. Swatted two flies with one slap – wait, is that the expression?”

“Two birds with one stone,” Bilbo and Fridda reply in unison.

“Hmm. Our version makes more sense, don't you think? Anyway,” he continues, “Fridda and me have been planning to pull some stuff out of the archives for ages now, and now that I know what Thrain had mentioned, I went and got some more files that I thought might be interesting to all of us. Did you know he'd talked about your grandparents?” 

He directs his last sentence to Fridda while digging in his satchel and beginning to take out folder after folder, all thick brown paper with the royal coat of arms on top – Bilbo is reminded of his contract, and doesn't know how to feel about that.

“Really?” her eyes widen.

“He said... what was it, Bilbo?”

“Oh, um... nothing much? He just... he mentioned 'the Smyths', and that they'd run away? Really, he wasn't making much sense. He seemed to think Laura Ibindikhel had been somehow involved in his survival, and he said... He said something along the lines of 'the Smyths had run away, and Bifur was missing, and so Bundushar thought he'd gotten us all', I... It doesn't make much sense, does it?”

They both stare at him, Fridda clearly dumbfounded, Bard deep in thought, his glasses halfway to his face, before they turn to look at each other.

“Too good to be a coincidence?” the journalist offers, and Bilbo sees in her face the same sort of flicker of vague pain that he'd noticed once before, but then she breathes out: “Oh, definitely.”

Bard orders a coffee very casually, but what follows is perhaps one of the most confusing hours of Bilbo's life. The journalist spreads across the table the numerous files he'd brought, and Fridda takes stacks of them as well, and it's not entirely clear what they're searching for, but they're no doubt getting _somewhere._

Fridda seems to be adamant to learn about her grandmother's student years, while Bard needs to know everything about the events almost ten years prior to the revolution, and Bilbo merely sits there and listens to them, names and places that mean nothing to him being mentioned again and again, or only once, or even written down, and he doesn't understand much, so he simply sips on his ice tea and leaves them to it. They seem to be reconstructing some sort of very general timeline, and his interest piqued by Bilbo's account of Thrain's words, Bard is determined to find a connection between his mother, Smaug Bundushar, Fridda's grandmother, and Thrain himself – something, anything that would explain what on earth happened a decade ago.

“This doesn't make any sense,” Fridda declares, for about the fourth time already, “I know Nana left the country because of the revolution, but she always said it was because living here had become unbearable. Now it kind of sounds like she had no other choice but to run away...”

“Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way,” Bard mutters, his coffee forgotten, his chin resting on his hand, one long finger tapping on his lips, “maybe the lack of information is deliberate, you know. Maybe someone made sure there was nothing to know. We all know one person who's excellent at wiping his slate clean over and over again. The whole 'he thought he'd gotten us all' business Bilbo mentioned makes this all stink – if it's true, Bundushar attempted to literally obliterate all evidence of his wrongdoings during the revolution, and that's all the more reason and leverage to bring him down. I just wish I could talk to Thrain alone.”

“No luck yet?” Fridda notes.

“No, the King is against it, rather resolutely. Haven't seen him quite as angry in a while as when I asked him if I could please get an interview with his father in private.”

An odd wave of satisfaction washes over Bilbo at that – he doesn't even know where that came from. He dismisses it and takes a look around instead – aren't the inconspicuous coffee shops always filled with spies listening in, in the movies at least? There are only a handful of people in there with them, most of them students with headphones on and gazes firmly locked to their laptop screens or book pages, and Bilbo finds it strange – they might as well be planning another revolution, and no one might even notice.

“We really need his overview of the situation,” Bard laments some more, “same with Bifur Abkhûz. The two of them might be our only leads when it comes to finding out what really happened – what Bundushar was planning then, and what he's trying to achieve now.”

“The pattern is repeating,” Bilbo mutters through the straw in his mouth, and Bard frowns at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, it's just something Thrain said to me. _The pattern is repeating,_ ” Bilbo explains, “from what I understood, he seems to think that Bundushar is trying to finish whatever he'd started here during the revolution... I don't know!” he waves his hand frantically when he sees them both gaping at him rather incredulously, “just speculating.”

“Speculating is all we have right now,” Bard sighs.

“Look, I'm long past getting lost in all this,” Bilbo remarks, “but there's still one thing that doesn't make sense to me – how on earth did Bundushar get a hold of Thrain? He'd been hiding him for quite some time before Gandalf got his hands on him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think he was planning to do? I mean, I can't pretend to understand the bigger picture here, but I met Bundushar a couple of times, and he doesn't seem like the type to just let someone snatch Thrain away from him, not if he was planning something properly grand and... and diabolical with him, you know?”

They both seem surprised at his words, but not nearly as surprised as Bilbo himself – he swore he wouldn't try to immerse himself in this anymore, for his own sake! Suddenly, with surprising clarity, he remembers sneaking the Princes out of the Palace some months ago, without the King's knowledge, just because he thought it was the right thing to do... He'd done it despite being told not to meddle – all because he thought he was right, and because he was stubborn, and because he knew, he _knew_ it would work out well. Or managed to convince himself of it for about two hours. And he'd thought Thorin was surely going to fire him for such blatant disregard of rules, but that didn't happen, and more importantly, it led further and worked out excellently for everyone involved...

Bilbo knows it's a poor example, but he also thinks he knows why he'd remembered this particular part of his history at the Palace – it was all about being headstrong and stupidly brave then, about deciding to do something, the consequences be damned, because he was sure the outcome would prove a good one in the long haul. He had been so certain then, so steadfast in his convictions, so valiant, his head clear... Perhaps it's high time he regained some of that. God, he's spent what seems like an eternity just being scared and overcome with worry and generally simply useless, hasn't he? 

Well, first order of business – settling the score with Bundushar and whatever danger Bilbo thinks the man might pose to him. Suddenly, he's sick and tired of fearing what might happen without actually having a say in the matter. Leaving his fate up to others. By helping Bard and Fridda, and, yes, probably Gandalf, to discover more, he's actually helping himself in a way, isn't he? To some peace of mind, at the very least. He could spend his days sitting around wringing his hands in his lap and wait for his world to come crumbling down, or he could stand up and prevent that from happening. Or at least ride it out with some semblance of dignity.

_ What if there's no mess?  _ Oh, Bilbo is sure there is a great deal of mess, and that there's definitely so much more to come, but he can't just let it pile up anymore. He feels a sudden surge of adrenaline, and he's almost ready to just get up and walk out of the coffee shop, but he's rational enough to realize he doesn't know what his next step could even be.

“Are you alright?” Fridda asks him then, snapping him out of his reverie, and he realizes he's been staring straight ahead, probably rather intensely, for god knows how long.

“I want to help,” he declares simply, and it's as if his voice isn't even his own, it's as if someone else is saying the words for him, but he doesn't particularly mind.

“Tell me what to do,” he continues, “I could... I think I could ask Thrain some questions.”

Fridda and Bard exchange a fleeting look.

“You have access to him?” the journalist wonders.

“I don't... know,” Bilbo inclines his head, but then, more steadfastly, “yes. Sort of, I think. Yes, I do. It's not like I'll... not like I could force the answers out of him, but I think both of us would enjoy another... talk. You know? Maybe we'll learn something valuable.”

“Bilbo, are you _sure?_ ” Fridda asks, and he senses in her voice the same worry he was burdened with not so long ago, about putting too much on his plate, about worrying about things he shouldn't be worrying about... 

He smiles.

“I am. I mean... I don't know how much good it'll do, but I... I think I must try.”

Fridda is looking rather displeased for some reason, but Bard is the exact opposite.

“Excellent. This could really help us turn the tide. I have people working on reconstructing Bundushar's profile before the revolution – he's notoriously secretive about his past. And if you could find out more about that time in general, Bilbo, about my mother, about what actually happened...-”

“I'll do my best, but he's still just a very old, very frail man,” Bilbo reminds him gently, “I'm not sure how much he remembers, or if any of it is... you know, legitimate.”

“That's true,” Bard nods, and is about to say some more, but his phone rings, and after a few quick sentences in Khuzdul that Bilbo doesn't quite catch, he looks even more distressed.

“Listen I need to get going,” he says, and when Fridda tilts her head inquisitively, he waves his hand in some vague irritation, “I'm gone five minutes and the office is falling apart. I'm sorry, _âzyungel,_ but if we're still on for next week...”

“Of course,” she smiles, and stands up with him, helping him gather all the folders and files back together.

“Bilbo, give me a call if you happen upon anything,” Bard says, “and if you think you might be able to learn any more from these files here, I have them for the whole week, so just let me know, alright?”

Bilbo's about to agree, but Bard's already saying goodbye to Fridda, kissing her surprisingly softly, and Bilbo watches her accompany him to the bar to pay, mumbling something to him, her expression worried, and he reassures her with words Bilbo doesn't catch, and they smile at each other, kissing one more time... He looks away, because he feels almost like he's eavesdropping.  When Fridda returns to the table, sinking back into her chair heavily, he smiles, cocking an eyebrow, and she sighs.

“It's... eventful, that's for sure,” she answers the question he didn't ask, and Bilbo grins.

“You look very nice together, if you don't mind me saying,” he offers, and she chuckles.

“Why thank you. Still, we've barely... I mean, I see him all the time and yet it feels like we never get a moment of peace. You know?”

“I do,” Bilbo says, “but at least you get to see him in daylight.”

She giggles, and he doesn't tell her  _you're lucky. You might have a busy relationship, but at least it's an actual relationship. Look at you kissing in coffee shops and meeting in the middle of the day and having set plans for next week... I wish I had something like that, and it's not that I regret choosing Thorin instead, it's that I can't have something like that_ with him.  _And so far, I'd rather have him, than... that that, but also, there's nothing wrong with wishing for a couple of normal aspects to our relationship, is there?_

He feels the sudden urge to go see Thorin, wherever he is, and the conviction he'd made earlier is strengthened by that – he's going to do his best to snatch as much time with him as possible, and if he's right, it will eventually lead to talking. Which is something he fears, but it is also something that's absolutely necessary, and he can't put it off any longer.

“I think I'll be going as well,” he tells Fridda, but she raises her finger at him when he begins to gather his things.

“Before you do,” she says firmly, “I want to make sure that you understand that... that this doesn't hinge on you. Bard has this under control, no matter how it looks, and he'll get there eventually, with or without your help.”

“I know, but-”

“I'm _serious,_ Bilbo. You have enough on your plate as it is. Don't do this out of some false sense of... oh, what do I know, bravery. Don't go thinking you'll solve everything by plunging into danger like this. And _certainly_ don't think of this as your... your penance for whatever you think you might have done wrong. Please?”

“Fridda...” he breathes out.

“I worry about you,” she declares sternly, and her strict demeanor takes Bilbo a bit by surprise.

“I know, I...”

“ _Call me_ whenever you need, you understand?” she all but orders him, “worry about the one thing you _should_ be worrying about, and that's... you know who.”

“I know,” he repeats, “I will. I promise,” he adds resolutely, and though she remains unconvinced, he thinks that this promise, he might actually be able to keep.

For a while, anyway.

 

The rest of the day is blissfully uneventful – he completes all his routines easily enough, the Princes complaining about the amount of their extracurricular activities, and as he listens to Fili list all the reasons why he _doesn't_ need to go on with his fencing lessons anymore, Bilbo tries to come up with the best time to go and find Thorin. It's a strange sort of panic, mixed with feelings of inadequacy, when he realizes he knows next to nothing about the King's schedule. On one hand, why should he? On the other, it makes him feel somewhat helpless.

He hopes Thorin might join them for dinner, but when that doesn't happen, he decides to stand by his new-found courage and go ask Balin directly. The Chief of Staff is almost equally as hard to get a hold of, but Bilbo manages to find him by Deidre's side, distributing orders to her maids and solving this issue or that, pertaining to laundry as far as Bilbo understands. He has a slightly difficult time explaining how he'd found himself in this part of the Palace at all, but fortunately, Deidre has too much work to have time for witty remarks, and Balin simply lets him walk by his side and gives him enough time to tell him what's really going on, bless him.

“He returns at around ten today,” he supplies, “I'm advising you against... whatever it is you have planned, but I don't expect you to listen. No, don't look at me like that, I mean it – do whatever you think is best. Just keep in mind that he has a meeting with the Police President to attend tomorrow morning.”

“No, I wasn't planning on... I mean, it's not that I...” Bilbo babbles, blushing, but Balin merely raises an eyebrow and says nothing, except for a simple: “I think he plans on having lunch at home tomorrow, though.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, “oh, that's... great, I mean...”

“Would you like me to set it up so that you and the Princes meet with him in the usual dining room?”

He asks casually enough, but Bilbo feels some strange sort of dread and Balin suddenly turning into their... what? Date counselor?

“Only if it's not any trouble, I...”

“Consider it done.”

“Balin, I wouldn't want you to assume that I... that we...”

To his surprise, the man chuckles.

“I am not in the business of _assuming_ anything,” he says kindly, “I'll do my best to help you figure out a schedule that could work for the both of you, but beyond that, your life is your own. Just don't make him late for his meetings, I beg of you.”

“I'll... do my best,” Bilbo peeps weakly.

“That's all I ask. Now, is that all?”

“Actually, I've been wondering...”

“Spit it out.”

“The Princes are meeting Thrain again tomorrow, but do you think I could... speak to him alone? Sometime?”

They come to a natural halt at the top of the main staircase, their ways about to part, and Balin's brow furrows, and he scrutinizes Bilbo with more care now.

“To what end?”

“Oh, well, when Thorin asked me to... when I was asked to keep his father company yesterday, we got to talking and I... I got the idea that he'd enjoy more of that. More company.”

Balin inclines his head, the largely undecipherable frown still in place.

“I see,” he says slowly.

“I really enjoyed his stories,” Bilbo supplies eagerly, “and I think he enjoyed telling them, and... I'm only asking because I have much more free time on my hands than I'd fancy these days, and this seems like a... nice way to spend it, I suppose?”

“I don't think I'm the one you should be asking,” Balin says, “why don't you see what the King has to say about it.”

“Ah... I suppose you're right,” Bilbo nods.

“Don't mind him if he's a bit wary, though,” Balin adds, “he's not particularly thrilled about all this interest in his father. Brings down journalists who ask for an interview by the dozen.”

“Yes, I've heard,” Bilbo mumbles, then, more resolutely, to chase off Balin's momentary frown of confused suspicion, “I don't want to... harass him, or anything. I really just... I thought I might visit him every now and then, in the mornings, you know...”

“Again, I'm not the person to ask,” Balin smiles, “or persuade. Good luck.”

And with that, Bilbo is left to his own devices for the remainder of the evening. He decides to spend it with the boys, as Fili has asked him for help with a writing assignment, and he knows for a fact that Kili hasn't even started on his homework. Time flies as he sits on the carpet in their rooms, bent over third-grade math problems, while Fili alternates between scribbling his account of his 'most exciting story from the summer holidays' (Bilbo has managed to convince him _not to_ write about the night of the attack on the Palace, and choose something less shocking instead), and chewing on his pen, which apparently helps him concentrate on stringing his English together better.

Bilbo doesn't protest – he's glad he has something so inherently peaceful to do before he goes and plunges into the unknown. He smiles when he realizes each and every encounter with Thorin is, in fact, an unknown, and when Kili asks him what he's smiling about, he dismisses it with conjuring a memory of his own childhood spent hating Maths, entertaining the boys enough so that even Bilbo can forget the slightly bitter edge of his thoughts.

Before long, it's time to tear Fili away from his computer, and convince Kili of the benefits of a shower every now and then, and then it is one more chapter of Pratchett's _Carpet People,_ and Bilbo bids them good night.

“Oh, I almost would've forgotten,” he announces, standing in the door, “your Uncle will join us for lunch tomorrow. Just so you know. We'll ask him about the fencing, alright, Fili?”

“Alright,” comes a mumbled reply from the older Prince.

“Night night now.”

“Good night.”

As he strides through the quiet hallways, Bilbo can't help but reminisce – once, long ago, Fili would have squirmed and protested at the idea of even attempting to approach Thorin with any sort of issue or inquiry, and neither of the Princes would be too keen on sharing lunch with him. By the boys' side, Bilbo is constantly reminded of the real value of his stay here, of the things he's actually managed to do _right,_ somehow, at some point. Reminded about what really matters. _Work off that,_ he orders himself, _work off that, and remember what believing in these boys has made you do over time._

His gut instinct never betrayed him when it came to all the reckless decisions that eventually led to repairing their relationship with the King – why should it fail him now?

Quite content for once, he heads for the cafeteria, for a quick chat a cup of tea (and perhaps a swig of beer, just to convince his heart to stop beating so frantically every time he thinks about what he has planned afterward). He finds only Bofur and Mirjam in the dimly lit room, bent over something on the table between them, deep in discussion led in Khuzdul. Bilbo catches the mention of _'too much food?'_ and _'does he even drink that'_ and what he thinks is probably _'I don't even know',_ but the way Bofur mumbles it and frowns, it might also be some particularly flowery curse. But then they notice him and spring apart like startled rabbits, Bofur greeting him entirely too loudly and cheerfully while Mirjam closes her notepad with whatever she'd been scribbling.

“Hi...” Bilbo says slowly, carefully, “what's going on?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Bofur waves his hand, “just some... supply issues, nothing to worry about... Coffee?”

“Tea, please,” Bilbo chuckles, “and since when are you the supply manager? Has Bombur been slacking off again?”

“Nothing like that,” Bofur laughs, “it's just that... I've been helping out Mirjam with some... stuff.”

“Stuff,” Bilbo repeats, and when he seeks some sort of explanation with Mirjam, she only rolls her eyes at Bofur, grinning at Bilbo, and hurries to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Yes, stuff.”

“Alright...?” Bilbo tilts his head, but decides not to push any further, asking, “where is everyone?”

“There's that dinner with those Italian diplomats tomorrow, remember? Bombur's still bossing the cooks around, I think, and everyone else is just as busy.”

“Right... right,” Bilbo nods, curling up in his favorite armchair, waiting for Bofur to say more, but when he doesn't, he gathers his courage.

“When I talked to Thrain,” he says, hopefully casually, “I think he mentioned your uncle.”

“Bifur?” the chauffeur wonders, “are you sure?”

“No, I... well, yes. I think so. He told me him and Bifur had been a part of some sort of... resistance group, along with some other people?”

“Resistance group,” Bofur repeats, and it's not pleased, not by a long shot.

“Well, he wasn't... wasn't making much sense,” Bilbo supplies quickly, “but I thought it was interesting.”

Bofur always has something cheerful about him, a positive streak no matter his expression – it's probably the eyes, Bilbo thinks, always smiling, always with a spark. But they're not smiling now, stern in the dim glow of the few lamps in the room, and for the first time ever, Bilbo gets a glimpse of what Bofur's family must have been through, and of just how heavy it must rest on the man's shoulders.

“Did you tell him Bifur was alive?” he asks quietly.

“No, I didn't get the chance, actually,” Bilbo replies, “though he said he'd so like to talk to him...”

“Bilbo,” Bofur says softly, “you must understand, even before his accident, my uncle was... he'd been through a lot during the revolution. He'd always been against Bundushar, and when the old King went... when it all started tumbling down, it was a difficult position to be in. I don't know what Thrain told you, but the truth is, the country would have gone to Bundushar if it hadn't been for certain people supporting the monarchy through its worst moments.”

“People like your uncle?” Bilbo mutters.

“My uncle lost his job because of the Crown,” Bofur offers, but there is not a hint of derision in his voice – just something that Bilbo classifies as resignation.

“The old King shut down so many mines, to deal with the Moria Conglomerate,” the chauffeur continues, peeling the label off his beer bottle, glaring at it as if he's carrying out a personal vendetta, “almost crippled all our export... well, that's for the professionals to talk about, the impact it had on the economy. All I know is, Bifur got caught in the crossfire, even though he'd always been a stalwart supporter of the Crown. This happened to countless people. Countless. It was not pretty, but... well, Thorin came around, and nobody really believed that he would succeed, but he saved this country. It doesn't get said enough, but he did, he saved Erebor, and when you think about it, ten years is a pretty short time to do that, but it's only thanks to him that this country is still alive.”

Bilbo heart is tolling like a bell – he feels lightheaded, and simultaneously like wrestling the whole world with his bare hands and finding the closest closet and climbing in and never coming out, because the realization hits him like a sledgehammer. Thorin is an almost unrealistically grand figure, with all his tragedies overcome, and his martyrdom that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and his convictions and his strength, and somehow, Bilbo is capable of existing beside all that without spontaneously combusting. He's in love, and he's clueless, and it's so frightening, and his throat is a bit dry.

“I don't know if Bifur is... was whatever Thrain says he was,” Bofur continues before Bilbo can even open his mouth (he's strangely grateful, who knows what might come pouring out), “all I do know is he survived the revolution unscathed, and found a great job with the Urs-tarâgs' company, and everything seemed great until it just... wasn't. He'd always had his suspicions, always said it was all too good to be true, that Moria wasn't that easy to get rid of, that it would all turn out horribly... guess he was right, huh?”

Bilbo feels horribly guilty then, like he's trespassing into the parts of Bofur's memories he has no right to be witness to. He's never seen his friend so... rigid, so obviously in pain talking about something, and he feels the urge to beg him to stop, that he doesn't need to say any more, but before he can make that decision, Bofur continues, as if he's morbidly determined to finish the story.

“He talks about it all sometimes, you know,” he mumbles, taking a long swig of his beer ( _Azaghâl_ _,_ reads the half-peeled label – warrior. Bilbo would laugh, if it were even a little bit funny), “he's become more talkative since he got the new meds, but he still doesn't... doesn't make much sense. The doctors think he might be remembering the day of the... you know, the Gundabad tragedy. They can't determine if it will be traumatic for him, because he's always so, I don't know, peaceful. You should see him, he just sits in his wheelchair outside in the gardens, and sometimes he talks about his old dog, and sometimes he talks about soccer, and sometimes about things exploding and rocks burying people alive. It's pretty grim.”

“God,” Bilbo peeps, and it's as if Bofur has only just noticed he's been there the whole time.

He narrows his eyes, but then his whole face relaxes, regaining that familiar friendly glow, and he actually laughs.

“Mahal, I'm sorry, you shouldn't have let me ramble on like this!” he exclaims, “I didn't mean to bother you, forget I ever said anything, alright?”

“I'm so sorry,” Bilbo sighs heavily, “I shouldn't have asked.”

“No, no, it's alright, really. It's just that... you know, we spend so much time trying to keep people away from Bifur, that we never really get to talk about it. I'm sorry I laid this on you. That's one more horrible family story for you to think about, huh?”

“I'm beginning to think Erebor's full of those,” Bilbo replies faintly.

“Very true,” Bofur chuckles, “are you sure this is the country for you?”

The joking undertone is very apparent, but Bilbo's face must betray the thoughts that begin swirling at those words nonetheless, because Bofur leans forward, patting him on the arm, and exclaiming: “I meant well, I swear! Erebor is lucky to have you! It's not all long-lost relatives, or dead relatives, or dysfunctional families in general, I promise! We have... great beer! The mountains are nice, and the food is exceptional!”

By the end of his little litany, Bilbo is laughing wholeheartedly, and Bofur leans back in his armchair, grinning.

“Honestly,” he says, “I'm sure you get enough praise as it is, but just in case it's not said enough, we all _are_ very happy you took this job. And that you've lasted this long.”

“Oh, I...” Bilbo waves his hand, but doesn't really have anything good or sensible to respond with.

“It's true. I just hope it's not exhausting you too much, you _have_ been looking a bit worn down lately.”

Bilbo really wants to respond, to dismiss his worries, as quickly as possible, but somehow, he can't. Maybe a teeny tiny part of him hopes that the truth of it all will just... show in his eyes, and Bofur will guess on his own, and it will be over.

“Don't you worry about this country's past,” his friend tells him, “it's all nasty and tangled up and gone. We don't have to bother with it now. My uncle and His Majesty's father are... you know, they've been through the worst, so obviously they're always going to _assume_ the worst. We can't really blame them. But we also can't let their worries become our worries.”

“Oh, too late for that,” Bilbo utters before he can stop himself, his gaze darting away when Bofur's eyebrows arch up.

“You're worrying about things you shouldn't be worrying about again, aren't you?” the chauffeur demands, and reminds Bilbo of Fridda so much it almost makes him laugh, but the taste in his mouth is too foul, too bitter for that.

He looks up and into his friend's eyes, and wonders if this might be it, if the moment when he finally shares the truth with someone could possibly seem so insignificant at first. If all the big things happen in small moments, without any prior warning.

“Bofur, I've been so stupid,” he breathes out, and the other man's eyes widen, and he frowns inquisitively, but before everything can in fact come spilling out, Mirjam and Bombur enter the room, the cook chattering away about this or that kitchen fiasco very loudly and his wife laughing, and Bilbo lets out a sigh so heavy it makes his bones rattle. Bombur launches into flowery descriptions of the uselessness of his sous chef, and Bilbo only waits for the opportune moment to excuse himself, withstanding their questions and pleas to stay behind rather bravely in his humble opinion, and striding out of the Staff building and back into the mass of the Palace.

He's still a bit shaky – for about three seconds, taking Bofur to the side and telling him everything, every little detail, actually seemed like a good idea, and he can't quite figure out why. At this point, it's more of a free fall. His whole existence here is a free fall. Future is not to be thought of, because he can't be certain what it will bear – or maybe he is, and he simply doesn't want to accept it. Either way, he's been living from one momentary solace to another, and he'd call it reckless abandon, if he thought he were capable of that. This... deciding to try and help Bard, deciding to try and do _something,_ feels good, feels like he's taking charge, but still... There is something missing. There is something he's not paying enough attention to, something that will break his neck in the end. Something like wandering up one floor above his apartment without even noticing, and ending up near Thorin's quarters, slightly confused and more than slightly cross with himself... 

And didn't this happen once before? Yes, he distinctly remembers getting tipsy one night and ending up at the top of this very flight of stairs, gazing out of _that_ window, bumping into Thorin out of the blue, and they'd discussed Fili's future in school and Thorin had nursed a glass of whiskey and wore a white shirt and it had been late into the night, and neither of them had known where it was all headed...

“Bilbo.”

He's standing there just like he was all that time ago, his figure framed by the haze of light coming from his room, but this time, the view doesn't startle Bilbo – he's pulled to Thorin almost unbearably, and what's more, he's actually allowed to cross the distance and give in. This part of the floor is blissfully devoid of security for now, and even though Bilbo is sure they're just around the corner, ready to jump in at any given moment, he doesn't really care.

“I didn't actually mean to end up here,” he manages feebly, and it must sound ridiculous even to the King, because Bilbo's halfway across the hallway to him before he even finishes the sentence.

“You must be busy, I don't want to waste your time,” he continues with more determination, and Thorin frowns shortly, almost imperceptibly, dismayed lines rippling across his brow, but then he smiles, his shoulders sagging.

“You saved me some time, actually,” he declares.

“Oh, I... I did? How so?”

“I was just about to go find you.”

Once again, Bilbo's mouth hangs open without a suitable answer to follow, and he feels like it's his default state these days – speechless. Certainly when it comes to Thorin.

“That's... ah, good,” he manages.

“Balin tells me you asked about-

“Oh, god, yes, no, that was... I was just-”

Yes, speechless and bumbling, and incapable of stringing a sentence together whenever Thorin's gazing at him, and his lips spread into that slow smile. How old is he turning on Friday again? Thirty five? Substract two decades and we're closer to the actual number.

“Come in?” Thorin offers, stepping aside only ever so slightly, and Bilbo gets a glimpse of the interior, the leather sofa somehow much more inviting than when he first saw it, the TV on, a mug on the table in front of it... Those are all momentary details, ones that he catches almost unwillingly, and yet they're enough to almost propel him forward.

“I wouldn't want to... I mean, Balin tells me that you have a thing in the morning, I...?”

Yes. Eloquent. Wonderful. Way to go.

“I have no intention of missing that,” Thorin says to that, “but I have no intention of letting Balin determine my sleeping habits, either.”

Bilbo is quite sure Thorin doesn't even possess the ability to create offhand innuendos, but he blushes nevertheless.

“If we stay up too late, you're actually risking _me_ telling you to go to sleep,” he supplies, and the awkwardness of it catches up with him entirely too late.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Thorin grins, which Bilbo decides to take as a sign that he doesn't mind, or, more plausibly, doesn't even register it, and then, before he can really think it through, he's following him inside.

The apartment is infinitely cozier now, the colors warmer, richer, transformed by the golden glow of a tall lamp by the central pillar, the only source of light beside the TV. Bilbo senses a faint draft, and notices the door to the bedroom is open, and strangely enough, it makes him a little nervous.

“Something to drink?” Thorin offers, and Bilbo realizes he's standing still while the King has trailed to the kitchen – he hurries after him, feeling oddly unsteady on his own.

“Not really, I had a cup of tea before, and if either of us are ever to go to sleep...”

Oh for _crying out loud._

“I see. Though I meant,” Thorin takes a bottle of wine out of the fridge, “something to _drink._ ”

“Oh,” Bilbo gapes, quite incapable of figuring out what about the sight of the King in his kitchen with his bottle of red is so endearingly domestic, “oh. Alright. Yes, I'd... I'd love some, thank you.”

Something in the muffled chattering on the TV catches his attention then, and he pries his gaze away from Thorin and to the screen momentarily, only to be dismayed at the sight of some sort of report about how Azog Karkâl's party has been faring in court, the leading man himself shown conversing with the Prime Minister, then with Bundushar, then marching somewhere surrounded by journalists... Bilbo is unpleasantly ensnared by the sight until Thorin appears by his side, his eyebrows arching up when Bilbo looks at him from the glass he's offering, confused for that one moment. He takes the glass gingerly, and watches as Thorin goes to switch the TV off rather resolutely.

“Was that... important?” he peeps.

“Might have been,” Thorin says innocently, “can't remember now.”

He's still smiling, and Bilbo, rather than staring unabashedly, gathers his wits enough to toast with him, wordlessly – the rich bitter taste of the wine does a wonderful job of calming him down.

“I have... a favor to ask you,” he says, deciding that talking is a much better course of action than staring at the two top buttons of the King's shirt leisurely undone, or his bare forearms, destined to be the bane of Bilbo's existence from the very first time he saw them, probably.

“Yes?”

“Well, it's not exactly a favor, more of a general... wondering.”

“I'm listening,” Thorin replies gently, and Bilbo sees just how much at ease he is, and he only hopes he won't ruin that.

“Yesterday, when you asked me to keep an eye on your father...” he starts tentatively.

“Oh, right, I never got to ask you, how did that go? I hope he wasn't-”

“No, no, it was amazing, actually. We talked a lot.”

“You did?” Thorin seems surprised, and still a bit worried.

“Yes, he seemed... quite eager to speak English, you know,” Bilbo reassures him, “and he told me such stories, it was really... really something. I never realized...”

Thorin's gazing at him intently, as if he's waiting for a 'but', as if he's expecting _some_ sort of trouble, always, and Bilbo wants to at least try and dispel that.

“That's what I wanted to ask you,” he says, “for the opportunity to just... talk to him some more. I got the sense that he'd like some company, and I know that you're not particularly, erm, keen on too many people approaching him, or so I've been told, but I just thought... Well, I have a lot of free time on my hands when the boys are in school, and I actually think I might have promised him to bring him some of the books that were published while he was...”

His bumbling comes to a natural halt – Thorin's intense silent gaze possesses that power. Bilbo does what he thinks might work best to take care of his suddenly dry throat – he takes another sip of the wine, his gaze darting away.

“ _This_ is what you wanted to ask me,” the King repeats slowly, “to... chat with my father.”

“Um,” Bilbo manages.

Thorin opens his mouth, presumably to respond, but he seems, strangely enough, rather lost – he also resorts to drinking some more, peering at Bilbo the whole time, up to the point that he begins feeling a bit uneasy.

“Is this... is there some sort of protocol against this?” Bilbo babbles uselessly, “was that a one time thing, and should I forget everything he said to me? Sorry, I shouldn't have asked, that was stupid of me, obviously I don't...”

Thorin huffs a laugh, and it's surprising enough to shut Bilbo up.

“I can't believe you,” the King says, and maybe it's just Bilbo, but he sensed an infinite fondness in that, somehow, for a second.

“I, I know, some of the ideas I get aren't exactly stellar, I apologize,” he supplies hurriedly, both the wine and his slight embarrassment heating his cheeks.

“No, I can't believe _you,_ ” Thorin repeats, and when Bilbo frowns, he steps closer, effectively sapping Bilbo of any constructive thinking he had left, “I can't believe you would... _of course_ you can speak to my father. I've been... I don't like leaving him alone, well, ever, and knowing that you're... educating him about contemporary literature certainly beats Balin texting me to inform me about the newest forms of hell _Adad_ has been unleashing upon his assistants.”

“I think he called them 'mind-numbingly incompetent' once,” Bilbo chuckles sheepishly.

“That's about the mildest he's ever been, I assure you.”

“I take it to mean he's recovering well, then,” Bilbo grins, “I remember when my Uncle Fillibald was in the hospital when I was about twelve, and everybody was very happy when he started swearing fervently and complaining about the food, because it meant he was finally feeling better...”

He gradually realizes he's rambling again, but Thorin is looking at him with such unabashed tenderness, tinted with a hint of amusement, that Bilbo doesn't feel quite so horrible this time.

“I'll be quiet now, sorry,” he states nevertheless, then, because silliness overpowers him whenever he's feeling even a little bit nervous and awkward, “it's probably the wine, you know, red does things to me...”

All in all, being shut up by Thorin's lips on his is probably the best possible option. He gasps shakily, his balance wavering, but before he can stumble, Thorin's hand on his arm secures him.

“Definitely the wine,” he sighs feebly, resisting the urge to lick his lips to hold onto the sweet taste a bit longer.

“I think we need a refill, then,” the King replies so lightly Bilbo can't quite believe he actually said it – he frowns in mock-indignation, and Thorin's eyes dart away for a split second, almost timidly, but he's still smiling, and his hand is still heavy and warm on Bilbo's shoulder, his thumb stroking once, gently, and Bilbo doesn't really need any other invitation besides that.

Their next kiss tastes even more of wine, sweet and heady, and Bilbo's hand travels to Thorin's chest, the warmth of the skin behind just that one thin layer of the shirt rather marvelous – Bilbo's thumb brushes at one of the buttons, and he suddenly wishes he had somewhere to put the almost-empty glass of wine, because he certainly has a better occupation in mind for both his hands.

“Actually,” Thorin mumbles faintly, the movement of his mouth against Bilbo's enticing pleasant shudders, “I need to... I have this letter to finish, and...”

“And I'll let you finish it while you still can,” Bilbo chuckles, even though letting go is about the last thing he wants to be doing right now, “do you still want that refill?”

“You'll stay?” Thorin asks so uncertainly that Bilbo has to laugh, affording himself a moment to marvel at his own calm.

“Give me your glass,” he replies simply, and does his very best to withstand one of Thorin's looks he only witnesses every so often – that of obvious wonder, as if he sees Bilbo and can't quite believe he's real.

At least that's what it looks like to Bilbo himself, but it's not like he'd ever go about confirming the nature of it – he doesn't know what he fears more, getting it wrong, or right.

He wanders to the kitchen while Thorin disappears into his bedroom, both of them slow and perhaps a bit unsteady on their feet, and somehow Bilbo knows that this is what neither of them planned or expected, and he's _certain_ neither of them really know how to handle it, but... This is what he wanted, isn't it? More time around each other, to figure each other out, to talk more (and kiss more) and see where that takes them? Yes, yes, he still thinks it's the fastest way towards... some sort of resolution – one that doesn't necessarily involve sitting Thorin down and telling him everything in one go, that is. It's probably also a surefire way towards a catastrophe, but that's always been an inherent part of all this, Bilbo tells himself.

As he pours them the wine and listens to Thorin settle on the sofa, he allows himself to think of what it might be like in the future, if they indeed managed to have one. Would he wake up here every morning, make them both a cup of coffee and try to persuade Thorin to let him put a plant or two on the windowsill? Would Bilbo adjust Thorin's tie after they shared breakfast, not because he needed it but because it would be just one of those thing they'd do, and would they cease to be just two ordinary people the second they stepped foot out of this apartment?

Would Bilbo have to give interviews about 'snatching the most eligible bachelor in Europe', and would Thorin hold his hand in public? Would Theo Gabilaz invite them on his talk show together and ask them about 'overcoming obstacles' and 'pushing boundaries'? Would the Ereborean tabloids run crazy with speculations about the hardly believable story of the 'most unlikely couple of the century' and would Bilbo have to share _his_ story, of the boy from English countryside who grew up to be a... what is the term, even? Prince consort? Yes, because that doesn't sound ridiculous _at all._

Is there even a way for this to ever _really_ exist, outside the realm of these late-night chance meetings and incessant daydreaming, stolen chaste kisses and promises carefully untold, because both parties know they can't really be kept?

He walks out of the kitchen deep in thought, wine glass in each hand, and stops and stares, because that's all he's good at, apparently – Thorin is lounging on the sofa, the glow of his laptop screen making his features unnaturally sharp, but despite that, and even despite the glasses he's wearing, he still maintains that relaxed air, and once, Bilbo would have been worried about disrupting that, but this time around, he senses that he's somehow a part of it – and how is he supposed to feel about that again?

The floorboards are completely quiet as Bilbo walks towards the King, even though he would expect them to creak, crack, anything to disperse that look of intense concentration on Thorin's face. But he knows of Bilbo, as the short smile indicates, and he mutters: “The Italian ambassador is demanding an official stance on the coming elections, along with half of Europe. Everyone seems to think my father's reappearance is terrible news for our political stability. I'd like to know who came up with that.”

“Someone who hasn't met you, I'm sure,” Bilbo supplies quietly, and when Thorin smirks, he finally braves sitting down next to him, far enough so that he doesn't accidentally peek over his shoulder and also, more importantly, so that he can admire the sight undisturbed and hopefully without coming across as slightly creepy.

He sets their glasses down on the small table in front of them, and Thorin types and types, and Bilbo watches – it's the easiest thing to do. The sofa is very comfortable, and the longer he rests his cheek against the smooth leather, curled up on himself, the less capable of resisting the exhaustion he is. He's had some trouble sleeping for... well, ever since he can remember, which probably means since the attack, and he thinks there is something to be said about how he feels so at ease around Thorin that his eyes almost begin closing on their own, but he's not going to be the one to say it.

The King must be aware that Bilbo is gaping at him, making his professionalism regarding his duties all the more impressive – his eyes are glued to the screen, and all that betrays him is a gentle smile curving his lips every now and then, his gaze flickering sideways just a little bit a couple of times.

“ _The Crown remains confident that the upcoming elections will proceed as originally planned. We are aware of the expectations placed upon us in relation to the EU, and despite the current turmoil, Erebor will be ready to enter its presidential term in six months' time_... et cetera, et cetera, I don't think they need reminding that our mithril has been keeping the emergency funds as rich as they are for the past five years, but wouldn't hurt to mention it... Am I talking out loud?”

“Yes, and thank god for that,” Bilbo replies earnestly, and Thorin grins, quickly, almost shyly, so he adds, “it sounds great.”

“It's as vague as it gets, to be honest,” Thorin waves it off.

“I think someone once said talking vaguely and making it sound profound is a high form of art.”

“You're an excellent motivator, you know that?”

Bilbo titters, blushing.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“I was serious. I'm done. For now, anyway.”

“Is it possible that I'm less of a motivator, and more of a distraction?” Bilbo offers, handing Thorin his glass.

“You said it, not I.”

“Very well then. ...To the Italians?”

“I'd really rather not,” Thorin laughs, “to the English, maybe.”

“Now that makes _me_ reluctant to toast to. I told you once, I'm not a good example to base the English on.”

Thorin tilts his head, his smile unceasing, and Bilbo feels his own grin too, feels the slight oncoming drowsiness that makes his words roll off his tongue with much more ease, much more enjoyment.

“So you're telling me not all English people are well-spoken, charming... stubborn, surprisingly good-looking-”

“ _Surprisingly_ good-looking?” Bilbo exclaims, his cheeks flushing, “what on earth were you expecting when you hired me, a scarecrow with a TEFL degree?”

Thorin laughs heartily, and Bilbo's heart flutters so happily he feels the need to drown it in the wine.

“I wasn't expecting... well, anything, based on previous experience,” the King offers with a grin, “I certainly wasn't expecting to find... I wasn't expecting _you._ Not in my wildest dreams.”

“So at no point during my first weeks here did you refer to me as _'stuff of nightmares'_?” Bilbo counters (always a better choice than letting the meaning of Thorin's words really get to him), and the King laughs some more.

“If I ever did, I'm so sorry,” he replies, “but, well... how could I've known?”

Bilbo's smile broadens, but dissipates slowly after that, because yes, how could they have known? How could they have expected any of this?

“Trust me,” he says, his voice much more earnest than he'd fancy, “I didn't see myself ever sitting down with you for a glass of wine back then, either.”

“Because that's the most shocking thing we've ever done.”

It's Bilbo's turn to burst into laughter – it's entirely unexpected, and thus the best kind, and he actually has to set his glass down, lest he spills the wine all over the expensive leather. Thorin regards him with a highly amused spark to his eyes, sipping on his drink, and Bilbo didn't think he had it in him, or that he'd be the one to ever witness it, this effortlessly joyful humor. It seems so natural, but he knows there was a time it wouldn't come easily to the King – on one hand, he's immensely happy (and a bit proud) to be there for it, but then again, it's all the more fodder for his grim thoughts regarding all the possible outcomes of this...

And there have been enough of those for one day, he decides.

“You're right,” he smiles, “I'm sure there's more potential in there somewhere.”

Judging by his eyes widening an imperceptible amount, his hand with the wineglass faltering on its way back towards his lips, Thorin picks up on Bilbo's intentions, and crossing the distance is only a matter of shifting for a better position, the smooth leather of the sofa squeaking softly. 

Thorin leans forward, setting both his laptop and wineglass on the table, and Bilbo meets him halfway, their bodies tilting towards each other as if they're pulled together by some unseen force. Their knees bump as Bilbo strains himself to get even closer, and Thorin, wielding the advantage of the taller one, moves forward, one tender hand on Bilbo's cheek. Bilbo settles for Thorin's chest, fingers traveling up to find that soft skin of the King's neck, and it's wine and warmth and comfort, and he thinks he knows just how much he can afford.

When his other hand rests on Thorin's knee, he can almost taste the momentary hitch in his breath, but it's a good thing, oh, it's a good thing. Thorin's fingers find his own, but it's not to stop their progress, but to simply be there every step of the way. Bilbo knows he must take his time, let Thorin determine the pace, but for that, he must push _some_ boundaries, or at least nudge at them very gently. He shifts his weight forward, turning even closer to Thorin so that he can lift himself up a bit, knee burying into the cushions. The King's hand on his cheek halts then for a second, and their eyes flutter open at the same time, but Bilbo sees nothing but admiration and trust, no matter how hard he tries to spot something, anything else that would cater to that teeny tiny almost non-existent part of him that maintains that this is a bad, bad, bad idea.

Ignoring it is the easiest thing he's ever done, and his reward and reassurance in one is the sound Thorin makes as Bilbo gets even higher up, both his hands now cradling the King's cheeks, and kisses him deeper, knees digging into the cushions at an angle that will not last him long. No, he's going to have to... yes, sit in Thorin's lap if either of them want to continue this, and he goes about it as slowly as he can without losing balance, but Thorin complies so easily – there is something heart-stopping in the way he reclines his head, resting it on the back of the sofa obediently, his hands traveling to Bilbo's hips to steady him even though he barely needs it.

A slightly surprised sigh escapes them both, because that is certainly much more closeness than they've been used to, but Bilbo feels the King's lips stretch into a faint smile under his, and he kisses him all the more thoroughly for it, to keep it there, but also to capture a little bit of it for himself.

Thorin is nothing but immense warmth, like a furnace, Bilbo thinks a bit deliriously, and because he's spent his whole life always a tiny bit cold, he moves even closer now, chest to chest, lips to lips, and only makes sure to still be slow, still offer enough space for Thorin to retreat whenever he needs. But there will be no retreating this time, it seems – the King's arms secure him in place, and Bilbo rests his forearms on the headrest, fingers tangling in Thorin's hair, curling and uncurling again, scraping slowly... When that is rewarded with a meek moan that Bilbo feels and tastes more than he hears it, he knows his fate is sealed – knows that he would do anything to discover more of these, to learn the whole repertoire of Thorin's pleasure, study it like any other language until he could utilize it fluently, without a single mistake.

He grows hungrier as a result, the thoroughness of their kisses coupled with the steady, but still somewhat cautious tempo, has them both seeking out as much of the other as they can, the soft, wet warmth of Thorin's tongue, and his hands heavy and flat on Bilbo's back drive him crazy, drive him forward. But he still does falter when his fingers first brush at Thorin's chest, at the first of the buttons of his shirt, eyes slitting open, albeit reluctantly, but the King's own are dark, glowing, humorless, and it's enough.

He works the buttons gently, slowly, shuddering when first he feels the softness of the skin and hair underneath the fabric, but Thorin's still there, not going anywhere, not disappearing on Bilbo, as responsive as ever. And yet, he needs to make sure, needs to see he's not taking this too far – Thorin keeps his eyes closed for a moment, chin tilted up, lips puffed red, but when he realizes Bilbo has stopped, he peers at him from under heavy eyelids.

“Alright?” Bilbo asks, his voice coming out as nothing more that a rather hoarse sigh, and Thorin merely smiles in response, closing his eyes momentarily instead of a nod.

His breath escapes him raggedly when Bilbo proceeds, but Bilbo can't watch, his gaze glued to his own handiwork, the span of Thorin's chest the single most captivating thing he's had the privilege to witness in a long, long time.

Sometimes he forgets that Thorin is King. Sometimes he forgets that he should be in awe, that he should bow to him alongside the rest of the world, that he's in the presence of a person whose status and deeds have put him on a pedestal, willingly or not, and that that pedestal is not to be climbed, but adored from afar... Sometimes Bilbo Baggins forgets that the man he's allowed to kiss is in fact a monarch, and it's funny that he's reminded of it at the sight of his chest, of all things. 

But his courage holds, thank god, and before any sort of doubt can overpower him, he leans in for another kiss, Thorin inhaling deeply through his nose, and letting the air out again in a huff, shaky and a bit startled, when Bilbo seals his lips to his neck. He goes about it carefully, gingerly at first, but it is enough to entice soft gasps, Thorin's hands traveling across Bilbo's back, leaving gentle tingling in their wake. When he first presses his tongue to the searing hot skin, he senses Thorin's stomach muscles clenching, feels the warm puff of his breath brush at his hair, his fingers digging slightly into the small of his back...

When first Thorin lets out a small grunt of displeasure, Bilbo thinks he's doing something wrong, but then he hears it as well – a knock on the door, discreet but persistent.

“ _ Ma  _ _ darûn! _ ” Thorin declares loudly, Bilbo hanging his head, half sighing, half chuckling – their heads are still inches apart, noses all but brushing, and Bilbo knows that they're both on that vague verge beyond which their pleasure can be swallowed and put off only at a great difficulty.

“ _Ki Adadizu_ _,_ ” comes a stern reply, very unmistakably Dwalin's, and Thorin tenses up a tad.

“It's my...”

“I understood,” Bilbo murmurs. _Your father._

Climbing off is an ordeal he'd never hoped to undergo, and Thorin seems extremely reluctant to let him go.

“I'm sure it's nothing serious,” he says, his voice still somewhat unsteady, “yesterday, he wanted to talk about shrimp at two in the morning, so I'll... you know. Will you...?”

“I'll be here, I'm... I don't think I'm going anywhere for a while,” Bilbo replies earnestly, then, gesturing to Thorin's ruined hair and more importantly, his shirt more than half unbuttoned, “you might want to...”

“Oh.”

Bilbo's hand curls on the sofa quite on its own accord as he watches Thorin button his shirt back up, and he tilts his head, sighing profoundly.

“I'm sorry about this, I didn't-”

“Oh hush,” Bilbo grins, slouching against the sofa, “I'd be a fool if I expected this to be in any way easy.”

Thorin is about to say some more, looking deliciously disheveled, but then another knock comes, louder this time.

“Go, go,” Bilbo shoos him off.

“Help yourself to more wine, water, anything, I'll...”

“I know, now _go._ ”

And he's gone far too quickly for Bilbo's liking, and after the door shuts behind him, it's like the room is instantly a couple of degrees colder. Bilbo ogles the wineglasses on the table, downing them both, his face contorting in a pained grimace, and then he lets his head fall back against the armrest, and thinks of promises.

Those he can keep, like not moving an inch from this sofa until Thorin gets back and they can resume their... wine-tasting, and those he can't, like not letting that wine and the ghost of the King's touch all over his body let him lull into a false sense of security.

In the end, he fails epically on all possible fronts by falling asleep on the sofa before Thorin can get back, and that should be some sort of an indicator of where all of this is headed, but Bilbo Baggins refuses to see it, and dreams of peace instead. 

 

* * *

 

** Dictionary: **

_âzyungel_ \- darling, my love

_Ma darûn_ \- Not now!

_Ki Adadizu_ \- It’s your father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here we are. Who is capable of writing 13k without anything of substance actually happening? This gal. Anyway, sorry for das cockblock, sorry for, eh, the entirety of this chapter, but hey, Thorin's POV is coming next, and who knows, this fic might actually come to an end before the Hobbit movie remake featuring the first robot actors! (if you're guessing this chapter has left me in a somewhat odd mood, you're guessing correctly. sorry it took so long, but the entirety of this thing has been taking its toll on me lately :'D)


	20. Chapter 20

 

Dís laughs. Thorin can't see her, but he knows she's there, as is Frerin, and faint smoke swirls in stripes in the air, and the fresh green grass under his feet is damp, beads of dew gleaming in the crisp morning sun. He turns and runs, and the house is towering over him, the shade it casts entirely too cold, but he enters it nevertheless. He must find them, find them before it's too late... too late for what? He wants to call out their names, but something stops him – he's alone, and he's afraid, not much, only a little bit, and _'a little bit is alright, a little bit you can work with',_ that's what his father used to say... Used to? No, his father is there, of course he is, he is going to be up any minute, or maybe he already is, sitting in the kitchen, his newspaper spread wide, cup of coffee steaming. He'd asked them not to make much noise, this is their holiday after all...

“Thorin!”

That's Frerin, and Thorin swivels to see, a wide grin plastered over his face, but he misses his brother, only hears the faint echo of footsteps and giggling coming from upstairs. His feet carry him up there easily, swiftly, and Dís is going to lock the door to her room again, and that's cheating... He follows the noise, past his and Frerin's bedroom, past a couple of other doors (were they always here? He can't remember), and then he realizes they're in father's bedroom, and that's _definitely_ cheating.

He hesitates, remembering just how much father's scolding can sting, but what of it? He's surely downstairs, cracking his usual breakfast egg with his spoon now, always so neat, and Thorin will have to learn how to do that... He bursts into the bedroom victoriously, floorboards creaking and a gust of wind coming in with him making the long curtains flutter... The room is empty. 

Thorin spins in the middle of it, checking every nook and cranny, but there is no one. No one. He wants to call out for his siblings, but it's as if he suddenly has no voice. Specks of golden dust swim in the stripe of golden light coming in through the window, and he sees that the bed is made perfectly – no, more than that, it looks as if it's never been used, a thick quilt tucked tight under the mattress, and the only other thing in the room, besides Thorin and the bed, is a book on the perfectly smooth white pillow. He nears it cautiously, quite certain that he shouldn't even think about picking it up, surely father will know...

But before he can reach for it, before he can discern what the cover of it reads, a loud bang from behind makes him jump, and – the wardrobe! Of course, why didn't he check the wardrobe? How could he forget?

“Thorin!” comes from the inside.

“You lose!” he declares vigorously, “come out!”

He sees the doorknob of the wardrobe turn, and he waits, ready to tease, but then the door rattles a bit.

“Thorin!”

This time it's more desperate, and what's more, he can't tell if the voice belongs to Dís or Frerin.

“What are you doing?” he demands, irritated, “come out already!”

“Thorin!” his siblings continue pleading, “Thorin! Open the door!”

And the door rattles and jumps, and a sudden dread overcomes Thorin.

“Come on!” he cries, more frantic now, “get out of there!”

“I can't!” Frerin responds, his voice very clear now, and Dís echoes, “I can't!”

The wardrobe is all but jumping up and down now, and surely they must break out any minute now! Thorin wants to help them, knows he must help them, knows they might not get out without his help... He can't even reach out for the doorknob, it's as if all his limbs are frozen.

“ _Adad!”_ he exclaims, “ _Adad,_ help!”

The rattling of the door is somewhat ominous now, more like a deep rumble, and he thinks he can hear other noises from inside the wardrobe, scratching and humming, like powerful wafts of wind... He begins backing away, his siblings still shouting for him to help them, _Thorin, Thorin, help us, get us out..._

“I can't!” he cries, “I can't, I can't, I'll go fetch _Adad,_ I'll-”

He turns towards the door, the noise almost deafening now, and father is standing there, so imposing and intimidating that Thorin gasps, tripping and falling backwards, and father looks, oh, anything but happy, his hands on his hips as he steps inside the room, his piercing gaze all but scorching Thorin on the spot, and the rattling of the wardrobe is more like a drumming now, and Thorin tries to scramble to his feet, scramble away, but _Adad'_ s eyes are so stern he is frozen on the spot, and then he speaks, his voice quiet but incredibly angry, menacing: “What have you done? What have you _done?_ ”, and at that very moment, the horrendous noise stops, and Thorin snaps awake, his father's scorching gaze burned into his brain.

_ What have you done? _

He lies perfectly still for a few beats, disoriented, but then he recognizes the tiling of the ceiling, realizes he's in his bedroom back at the Palace, miles and miles away from...

He groans, rolling over onto his side, the alarm clock stubbornly reminding him that half past five in the morning is no time to be awake, that he could have slept for one more hour at least... The room is swimming in the dim bluish haze of the sun only just beginning to rise, and Thorin feels the weariness making his every muscle ache, his eyelids so heavy, and yet... his mouth is dry, and there is an unpleasant tingle up his spine, and when he blearily focuses on the wardrobe by the window, he knows he can't stay here anymore.

He gets up, and his legs apparently seem convinced that he's run a marathon yesterday, with how reluctant they are to carry him. He makes his way into the living room, scratching the back of his neck,  and it's only when he stretches his arms, up high above his head, neck quite literally cracking as he tilts his head this way and that, that he notices the halo of messy hair peeking at him from the sofa. Bilbo.

He's curled up on himself, barely taking up half of the couch, holding the blanket Thorin had fetched last night wrapped around his shoulders almost protectively. He's incredibly tiny like this, and Thorin still has a hard time believing that he's actually there. He remembers returning last night and finding him dozing off – at last, he decides not to give in to his urge to get closer and determine if Bilbo still looks as peaceful and adorable sleeping as he did yesterday. He trails into the kitchen instead, a glass of ice cold water helping a little bit, and he leans on the counter, glaring at his own hands, then shutting his eyes tight. This is ridiculous. How exactly did he end up here?  _What have you done?_ He grunts, rubbing his eyes, and wanders back into the living area a bit helplessly.

Going back to bed will only serve to make him even more tired, he knows this, but he still has more than an hour before his duties begin, and he can't  exactly stand here  all that time and watch Bilbo sleep... Or can he? It's certainly tempting.  He is still like a bit of a mirage to Thorin – still unbelievably real whenever he's near, and nothing more than a dream when he's not. Thorin harbors the same worry as with his father – that Bilbo will fade away from him when he's not looking, that he will walk away, that when Thorin next sees him, he will find out that it was all yet another dream...

He doesn't remember how they got here. Well... he remembers details, and the general outline of the past weeks and months, but it's all so distorted, so... distant. Quite honestly, everything in his life is now sort of separated into the time before the reappearance of his father, and after that. He wishes it weren't so. He wishes he were able to recall the weeks, months before the attack on the Palace, harmless and peaceful and so, so far away.

 

There's Marseilles, which is... not so long ago, dear god, the summer holidays ended not three weeks ago, and this was the beginning of them – and yet it feels like a whole another world. It had been incredibly hot in Erebor, and Thorin's biggest worry had been convincing himself that it was alright and perfectly safe to send the boys away with only Bilbo and a security profile that Dwalin had called 'barely adequate'...

He had been busy, so busy, and yet Bilbo's words wormed their way into his head in that particularly persistent way only the Englishman knew, _take some time off, spend some time with them,_ and after countless afternoons spent sitting in his office and reading the reports of his nephews' time abroad Balin had forwarded him, accompanied by not-so-gentle suggestions about rearranging his schedule easily so that Thorin could go after them, he finally gave in, uncharacteristically so. He'd jumped on a plane with little to no idea about what he was going to do in the coming four days, and it had been one of his better decisions, certainly.

He remembers the immense relief when the boys seemed quite pleased to see him, he remembers the warmth of the sun, something he'd thought he'd never savor ever again, and yet, there he was, relaxing for the first time in years, _years._

He remembers the singing of crickets late into the night, and Bilbo following him tentatively onto that terrace overlooking the sea, and he remembers the wine, and the urgency with which he needed to tell Bilbo _something_ right there and then _,_ something that had been on his mind for a while, but hadn't yet been formed into proper words...

It was then, wasn't it? It was then that he stopped being cautious about his feelings, stopped tying himself down with words of _protocol,_ and _duties,_ and things he _shouldn't_ do... Bilbo stirs as if to agree with him, and Thorin smiles, if a tad bitterly. Yes, everything seemed so simple then. He'd looked into Bilbo's eyes, recalling all the reasons why he'd ever wanted to get rid of him, why he'd ever thought he wouldn't be a good fit, and they suddenly all seemed so insignificant, because Thorin allowed himself to believe, if only under the influence of the Marseilles sun and the delicious wine, that he could want something for himself. 

What he does remember with startling clarity, are the moments directly before the attack, after he had walked through the dim hallways with Bilbo by his side for what'd seemed like hours, and after he'd let his honesty get the better of him, telling the man the truth about how he felt about having him around, actually physically reaching out for him, no less startled than Bilbo when their hands touched, because it was so unlike both of them, Thorin knew, and he couldn't even recognize himself, or the words coming out of his mouth...

But then the lights went out, metaphorically _and_ otherwise, and that had been the end of that. All the eagerness, all the joy mingled with a touch of almost boyish determination, all of that was replaced in Thorin's head by shock, confusion, _fear_ when the Palace went dark around them, and really, it has been all downhill from there.

He remembers it as a rush, worrying about the boys, Doctor Grey talking to him on the phone, Dwalin firing his gun for what Thorin knows was the first time in a very, very long time, the darkness, the flashes of light from the outside, the uncertainty, his mind racing with speculations, the weight of Kili in his arms as he had scooped him up from his bed, still asleep...

He remembers his heart quite literally sinking, beating hollow in his chest, when he'd learned that he'd have to separate from the boys and Bilbo, and as Dwalin led him to activate the safeguards in his office, muttering away about 'necessary precautions' and 'safety measures', Thorin remembers thinking about the last time he'd let the people dear to him leave his side, and how that had ended up...

 

The rest of that night is a blur, as are the first days they all spend in the house in the mountains. Distinct terror, yes, that is the first thing he feels when he's told where they're headed. He hasn't visited his childhood holiday retreat in years, _years,_ and the nightmares start there, after the first night spent in his father's bedroom, tossing and turning. 

They convince him to stay there a little longer, stay with his nephews, and he protests, partly because he can't imagine dealing with everything from here, the added inconvenience of commuting to the capital, et cetera et cetera, but also because he feels a bit unsteady on his feet, walking through the well-known hallways, his memories of the countless summers spent there with his siblings resurfacing even though he does everything in his power to repress them.

It's stressful, and he doesn't sleep, well... at all, and spends countless hours in the spacious drawing room where his father used to read after lunch and play cards with his guests in the evenings, but Thorin can't even dream of any such pleasantries. No, he is constantly surrounded by Dwalin's men, his head overflowing with Ibindikhel's plans and suggestions. But leaving is even more unpleasant, and he's forced to leave regularly, and really, it feels as if a storm is gathering, as if they're all balancing on a very dangerous edge, and Thorin doesn't know what's holding them together, keeping them from tumbling over. _He_ should be that thing, and they probably see him as such, but here he is, insomniac and strung to the point of snapping, breaking.

And yet... Fili and Kili are there, _really_ there, and they seem as unfazed as ever, and Thorin thinks it bitterly ironic, how they finally get to spend some time together only under these emergency circumstances. Thorin sits in his room in the few blissful moments when the world doesn't require him, and he ponders sharing with the boys at least some of the stories from his past here... At some point, he finds the ancient, dusty photo albums, and he turns them over in his hands for so long before he musters the courage to open them, and when he does, it doesn't make him feel... anything. He'd expect bile to rise in his throat at the sight of Frerin and Dís, of mother and father, preserved and pristine in their happy grins and faded colors, but all the pictures make him realize is how cold he is, and hollow, and so very alone.

“I wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew how to help.”

That's Bilbo, and there is a gun lying on the table in between them, and Thorin feels so profoundly guilty about dragging the unassuming man into this, but his words take him by surprise.

In fact, Bilbo never ceases to take him by surprise. He's so... _terribly_ brave. So collected. So quiet and so _normal,_ sitting there opposite Thorin, and when their fingers intertwine, at a moment that is everything but opportune, and everything but perfect for it, Thorin thinks that if he just had the time... If he could just spend more time with this man, he might eventually learn how to let at least some of that ever-calm demeanor rub off on him. 

Bilbo's fingers are soft and tender, and his hand so much smaller than Thorin's, and as he cradles it, all his warring emotions cancel each other out so that his mind is blissfully blank for that one moment. He thinks he doesn't need another person to protect and worry about, that he might not be able to take that, but also, that he doesn't quite have a choice. Did he ever have a choice?

Remembering their first kiss still confuses him to this day, because even though they eventually ended up... well, continuing from there, it's still...

 

He can't even recall the... the timeline. Everything is just so vague, their whole stay in that house is just a series of flashing images in his mind, like he's remembering something from another life, or something he'd read in a book, like the memories aren't even his own. But Bilbo is here, isn't he, and Thorin still remembers how his arms felt around his neck last night, and that is proof of _something._

 

He doesn't know how they lasted. It had been cold by that window, and Bilbo's lips had been entirely too soft, and allowed Thorin to dream of what he could have had, could still have, but the guilt after that had erased that experience almost in its entirety. He'd had no right, he... _That_ was when he'd started genuinely beating himself up over dragging the Professor into all that. He wasn't even allowed to think on it properly, there had been statements to make, and inconclusive meetings with the police to attend, and Thorin had always been good at that, at concentrating what _needed to be done,_ rather than what his heart, mind, whatever, demanded he pay attention to, and so he'd bitten down and trudged on.

_ 'This will never be easy for you',  _ they'd told him when he was still a boy barely past his teenage years,  _'you're going to have to make sacrifices, more so than usual, and never second-guess the fact that your duties come first.'_ They'd told him his happiness didn't matter when faced with the scope of what he was destined to achieve, destined to  _become,_ and of course he'd believed them. It had been his father saying those words, anyway, and as much as Thorin had wanted to kick and scream and protest, he'd never have dreamed of defying his father.

Besides, he'd had D í s and Frerin then, and they never were anything less than supportive – ironically enough, Thorin remembers how Frerin had, amidst all his fiery revolutionary speeches, told him ' _When all this is over, maybe things will change. Maybe you will be the one to change them. Maybe you won't have to make so many sacrifices anymore.'_ They'd always had so much faith in him, both of them, and it used to be enough to keep him going. After they'd lost father  _and_ Frerin, when Thorin felt like he couldn't take one more step without collapsing and never getting up again, D í s had been there, and she'd shouldered the responsibility of supporting him all on her own. But there never really was any  _time,_ he knew. He'd always have the country to answer to, and the country didn't care for his personal needs. The country assumed  _it_ was his personal need.

And yes, he 'd proven excellent at doing what needed to be done, even then, even when his personal world was crumbling down under his feet, and perhaps it had been then, standing at that funeral, that he'd shut himself off completely.

_ Love yourself  _ didn't matter anymore. Nothing quite mattered anymore, and this time, if he wanted to keep going, he'd have to make sure that what was left of his heart was devoted to – no,  _protected from_ anything that would threaten to sway him from from his work. He'd stonewalled himself against grief, against doubt, against love, and trudged on.

Which is why he can't quite put a finger on what had made him change his mind. After that first botched up moment between him and Bilbo, Dwalin had talked to him about responsibilities, and ' _choosing carefully_ ', and a great many other things, and Thorin had listened mutely, and his heart had ached... Yes, perhaps that had been it. His heart had ached, which was a feeling completely unknown to him... or, well, unrecognizable anymore.

Days later, after learning how to be around each other again, breathe the same air without suffocating, after letting Bilbo help him with his damned speech for the Peace celebrations ( _'I hate writing these,' Thorin had confessed to him, 'but the people I hire to do it never...' 'Never quite know what you want to say?' the Professor had finished his sentence for him, and really, there probably had been some sign in that_ ), Bilbo was in his arms again, but under circumstances none of them would have had expected in their wildest dreams. He'd fainted after the evening in Ered Luin, and Thorin remembers Fili and Kili's surprised gasps, remembers catching Bilbo before he hit the ground, and most of all, remembers how terrifyingly light he had been.

He'd gone down with him, the stone floor of the church very cold considering it had been the midst of summer, and the boys had crowded around him and Bilbo, demanding to know what was wrong, and he'd brushed strands of hair from his forehead before Dwalin's men got there, and... It had been there, telling Fili that no, he can't find a bucket of water and pour it all over Bilbo's face to wake him up, and assuring Kili that yes, Bilbo will wake up soon, that Thorin had realized just how much he'd grown to care. Past things as petty as physical attraction, and silly emotional... instabilities. No, unwittingly, he'd gotten himself into something much less expected, much more complicated, much more inconvenient.

But from that point on, he couldn't ignore it anymore. Or maybe he just didn't care. Maybe, at some point, all the talk about how he couldn't afford to be happy had boiled down to the fact that he couldn't be happy  _without him._

Much like everything else concerning Bilbo, approaching him and fussing over his health and general resilience had been very unlike Thorin,  but, well, somehow it'd worked, and Thorin still remembers the way his head spun when they finally, finally kissed, remembers how pliant, how responsive Bilbo had been in his arms, how his hands cupping Thorin's cheeks felt like a safety net, how the comfort he'd offered made Thorin believe he might have, after all, made the right decision...

He'd felt safe, and he'd felt giddy, and he couldn't stop twitching in his chair like a teenager when he'd gone to see Dwalin afterward and his Head of Security and oldest friend in one had repeated much of his words about ' _considering the consequences_ ' and ' _prioritizing_ '. He didn't need to tell him for Dwalin to know that he was dumbstruck, gobsmacked with feelings so unfamiliar to him he'd never even entertained the hope of experiencing them.

He remembers Dwalin telling him ' _be careful_ ', and he remembers thinking ' _what for?_ '. He remembers how amazing the following day had felt – he thinks he'd woken up with a smile that never went away for the duration of it, and remembers trying to come up with ways to spend at least some time in private with Bilbo, and remembers Bilbo's smiles when they played this or that board game with the boys, smiles that hadn't been pointed at Thorin but had belonged to him anyway. He remembers how Bilbo's skin had felt under his fingers, the darkness and the warmth, the taste of his lips and the promise they'd carried...

He remembers it all, and sometimes he likes to recall it, marveling at how fleeting it had been. How none of it could have prepared him for what came next.

 

“That's impossible.”

His response is immediate, swift and curt, and Dwalin's gaze darts to him in the rearview mirror. 

“You'll see for yourself when you get here-”

“Doctor Grey, it's been over ten years. What you're telling me makes no sense,” Thorin replies sternly, drumming his fingers on his thigh impatiently.

“The Swiss authorities seem to disagree.”

“The Swiss authorities have been pursuing their own ends as long as we've been cooperating, I'm afraid,” Thorin offers dryly, “I don't understand what kind of hoax this is, or why your people even considered it plausible, but I can't waste my time with this.”

“Is that why you got into a car in the middle of the night, then?”

“I have no patience for this, I am warning you,” Thorin says sharply, scratching the side of his neck absentmindedly and shutting his eyes tight when he's reminded of the way Bilbo's hands felt there.

“There are precautions in place, and I assure you the Chief of Police is less than thrilled about this turn of events, as is my very own Head of Security,” Thorin continues, and Dwalin rolls his eyes.

“If the man is indeed your father-”

“He is _not_ my – it's impossible,” Thorin repeats, a shiver dancing up his spine before he collects himself and continues, “you know this, Doctor Grey, you were there when...”

His voice dies off, and his fingers on his leg curl into a fist. He ignores the flicker of concern in Dwalin's eyes.

“That's true,” Gandalf says quietly, “but I was also there when we retrieved him, and I'm sorry I don't have more answers for you, but if we're to ever get to the bottom of this, I need you here. However this turns out-”

“The ride shouldn't take more than an hour,” Thorin cuts him off and hangs up, all energy, all the exhilaration he'd felt not so long ago for reasons that now seem so incredibly distant, seeping out of him like steam from a pot.

He glares at the shadows of trees dashing past outside the window, blurred and somewhat hostile in the headlights of the cars – Dwalin had seemed adamant that if they are indeed to leave in the middle of the night, it should be done properly, and so he'd set up the usual cordon of three cars, and Thorin didn't have the energy to protest. His mind travels, oddly enough, to his nephews, sleeping in the safety of what used to be his and Frerin's bedroom back in the day, and Bilbo returning to what used to be D í s' bedroom... He shuts his eyes, praying that sleep take him right here and now.

Yes, he's brilliant at trudging on. He allowed himself exactly three seconds of being shellshocked, overpowered by doubt, when they told him that the man who has miraculously resurfaced might be his father, and then he grit his teeth and refused to even entertain the idea. But uncertainty is gnawing at his nerves now. He is required to return to Erebor, that much is necessary, since the Chief of Police has issued a red alert, and it's more of an inconvenience than anything else, yes, of course it is, and Thorin will make sure to rain hell on anyone who'd dare d cause even more mess right now, when they all have more than enough to deal with...

But a part of him thinks,  _what if._ He silences it,  pushes it to the deepest darkest corners of his mind where it's always thrived, but it keeps bouncing back.  _What if it's really him_ transforms and mutates into  _what if miracles exist,_ and he feels himself losing solid ground under his feet. So he turns to facts. Dwalin and him spend the ride to the capital going over events neither of them have ever been too keen on reliving, and Dwalin does exactly what Thorin needs, which is to agree with him over and over again when he keeps stating that it's impossible, implausible, improbable – a part of Thorin, the one with the what if's, knows that he's only trying to convince himself, but...

The hospital is familiar – it's the same his grandfather had been confined to before  he decided never to step foot out of the Palace, and as Thorin strides through the dim corridors, he's suddenly ten years younger, entirely too young to be facing any of this. As he lays his eyes on Doctor Grey, surrounded by his Eagles, the same group that had rescued them from the Palace  (sans the assault gear, but looking no less purposefully deadly) , Thorin's step falters, and he suddenly wishes with immense urgency for D í s to be by his side. She would have known what to do. She would have understood whatever the hell is going on.

When Grey spots him, his men disperse at one almost imperceptible gesture from him, and Dwalin orders Thorin's own security detail to linger behind.

“Glad you could make it so quickly,” the Doctor says, none of his usual chipper demeanor left as he hands Thorin a file.

“This is what the Swiss know,” he explains simply, “we interrogated the man who'd provided us with the intel yesterday, suffice to say we were none the wiser. Your father – the man just... turned up.”

“Just turned up,” Thorin repeats slowly, leafing through the document and remembering he'd left his glasses back in the house, “that's it? Care to tell me what on earth is going on here? _Really_ going on?”

“I am as puzzled as you are, I assure you.”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” Thorin retorts, wearily more than anything else, “are you telling me the Swiss contacted _you_ first about a man who is presumed to be _my_ father? I don't know what's going on here, but this will not stand, Doctor. Explain yourself.”

Gandalf frowns shortly, but before he can reply, a set of footsteps announces a newcomer – the Chief of Police.

“Your Majesty _,_ ” the stern man nods to him, sparing only a scowl towards Grey.

“Surkaz, finally. Care to explain a red alert in the middle of the week?”

“Doctor Grey here thought it best to maintain an embargo before we learn more,” the Chief explains dryly, and his face says _I'm sorry for this mess._

“An embargo,” Thorin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I might have ordered your Chief here to do this, based on my superiority,” Grey chimes in, and there it is, that ever-cheerful streak that Thorin finds occasionally obnoxious.

“Doctor Grey, I am _this close_ to declaring an embargo on _yourself,_ ” he all but growls, “your people have set up camp at our own secret intelligence offices quite some time ago, and I've been allowing you this luxury simply because you have been staying out of my way. All I've ever asked from you was to be honest with me, so _please_ explain to me what's going on, right now.”

He feels anger bubbling right under his skin, and he knows it's equal parts exhaustion and confusion, and he can almost  _sense_ D í s by his side, her small soft hand on his shoulder always enough to calm him down...

“Follow me,” Doctor Grey says simply, and because Thorin is freshly out of ideas _and_ patience, he does.

 

He hears the faint beeping of life-sustaining machines from far, far off, and suddenly - very pointedly - doesn't want to go on and inside, but Grey waits for him at the door, and it soon becomes obvious that he's to go in alone, which is... yes, sensible, but also terrifying.

It's all dim. A small, ugly wall light fails to illuminate the entirety of the room, offering only a weak orange glow, and yet, the whiteness of the hospital bed is almost too much to bear. Thorin forgets to breathe for a second, and inhales sharply and shakily as a result. The first thing he allows himself to pay attention to are the man's arms, stick thin, translucent tubes leading from each hand up and away. Then... his face is like a pale orb against the pillow, almost the same sickly color as it in fact, and Thorin half expects _something_ of significance to happen when he finally braves looking at the man. For some sort of recognition to kick in, kick him in the gut and steal his breath away. Goosebumps, at least. But all he sees are incredibly gaunt cheekbones, a sharp nose that could be the Durin trademark, but also could be a hundred thousand other things, and white hair, and even more tubes, and he's... underwhelmed.

“He woke up from a coma two days ago, or so they tell me,” Grey speaks quietly, and Thorin tilts his head towards him, but can't tear his eyes away from the frail man in front of him.

“He's only sleeping now, but, well, if the reports are accurate, he'd spent the last ten years in a very deep coma...”

A soft gasp is heard, and it takes Thorin a moment to realize it was his own.

“Impossible,” he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time in the past couple of hours - then, regaining some resolve, “Doctor Grey, you and I both know my father was shot in the chest during the Azanulbizar revolution. There is simply no way this... this person could be him.”

“You and I both also know that the body was never found,” Gandalf says, standing by Thorin's side all of a sudden, adding quietly, “do you not recognize him?”

Thorin glares at the pale face, the almost translucent skin, webbed with wrinkles, stretched entirely too thin over the sharp cheekbones, and wills the man to wake up, open his eyes, because maybe then he would...

“No,” he states resolutely, “I'm sorry to say I don't.”

“Hmm,” Grey notes, and it's unclear whether he's displeased or simply resigned, “will you provide a DNA sample to be compared with his?”

At last, Thorin looks from the bed to Gandalf, narrowing his eyes – he's dead certain there are a great many things the man is not telling him, but it is also nearing midnight, and the incessant buzzing of the wall light coupled with the beeping of the machines next to the bed is slowly succeeding at making his head ache something fierce.

“I will,” he says, and Grey nods, yet another one of his incomprehensible minimalistic gestures signaling to someone outside the door.

“It'll only take a minute,” Gandalf tells him, and Thorin harrumphs, grateful when he's left alone in the room once again.

He watches Doctor Grey join Chief Surkaz outside, and catches Dwalin's gaze, shrugging shortly when his Head of Security raises an eyebrow. It takes but one telling look for Dwalin to come stand by his side, albeit rather reluctantly. Thorin can't blame him. Watching his friend's face proves much easier than watching that of the mystery man, and mirrored in it is the same doubt mingled with confusion that Thorin feels, though Dwalin is much better at concealing it, he thinks, nothing but his sharp jaw clenching betraying his thoughts.

“So?” Thorin mumbles, and Dwalin frowns.

“If anything, I would have thought he'd look more like the old man by now,” he says, and it's such a simple, dry observation, the kind of which only Dwalin can supply, that Thorin smiles shortly, unwittingly.

Yes, of course – if his father _were_ alive, surely he would have resembled Thror, the 'old man' as Dwalin has always been allowed to refer to him. He wants to say some more, but Gandalf returns then, accompanied by some sort of medical professional and a nurse.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor nods to Thorin and Dwalin, “just a simple cheek swab, one for the patient and one for you, Your Majesty, if you will.”

“I thought it would be only appropriate for a new sample to be taken from him when you're here, to avoid any... confusion,” Gandalf remarks, and Thorin can _sense_ Dwalin squinting at him, not even attempting to conceal his suspicion.

“Fair enough,” Thorin says, “but I want this supervised even _after_ I'm not here. Dwalin, get someone to accompany the doctor here to oversee the procedure please.”

“Oh, I assure you sir, that won't be necessary, it does take quite a long time to-” the doctor says hastily, but Dwalin is already pacing away, and Thorin offers a curt 'It's necessary to me', then takes one of the swabs from the tray the nurse (considerably more nervous than the doctor) is carrying. The doctor exchanges one fleeting look with Grey, who says nothing, merely nods.

“If you'll allow me, Your Majesty,” the doctor peeps, but before he can take the swab from his hands, Thorin performs the simplistic procedure himself, handing the stick back to the man, eyes already glued to the nurse who goes to do the same to the pale patient.

“The samples should be ready... doctor?” Grey notes, and, momentarily sidetracked, the man blinks at him before answering hurriedly: “Oh... Soon. Very soon. In the morning, certainly.”

“Excellent,” Gandalf smiles, looking at Thorin, who simply frowns in response, and, not sparing one more look in the direction of the bed, strides out of the room.

“I'll keep you posted-” Grey marches after him, but Thorin cuts him off: “Oh, you _will_ keep me posted. Surkaz,” he turns to the Chief of Police, “I want eyes on Doctor Grey at all times. I'm sure he will _accommodate_ your people accordingly, will he not?”

“If it is necessary,” Gandalf replies, “but if I may-”

“You may not. You have until the morning to get your story straight. I'll be returning to the Palace now, and I will hear no more of _this,_ ” one gesture of his hand encompasses the entirety of the current mess, “until the DNA samples have gone through. I need to speak to my people in private now.”

Gandalf opens his mouth as if to disagree, but Thorin holds his gaze sternly until he sighs, nodding and walking away.

“This stinks left and right,” Chief Surkaz notes in his effortlessly crude manner once Grey is out of earshot.

“I know,” Thorin groans, “find out what you can from those files, get me more intel. I don't know who that man is, but something isn't right here. Someone we cannot see is profiting from this, and I want to know what's going on. I want answers, and I want this contained, do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The meeting tomorrow-”

“I'll be there. I honestly don't know who thought it would be a good idea to drag this out when we've barely solved the attack... You know what, look for connections there. This can't be a coincidence.”

“Already happening, sir. Bundushar-”

“Mahal, I don't want to hear about him right now,” Thorin sighs irritably, “prepare a report for tomorrow, please.”

“...As you wish,” Chief Surkaz utters, and Thorin pretends not to notice the slightly concerned look he exchanges with Dwalin before fishing out his phone and striding away.

“Are you...” Dwalin tries when they are finally alone in the corridor, but Thorin simply sighs, marching toward the security detail waiting for them ahead, and says curtly: “Is Balin up to speed? Excellent. Get him to arrange for the Princes to return to the Palace tomorrow. I want you to be there to escort them, understood? Don't look at me like that, you'll have it done by the time I'm out of that meeting. I don't know who on earth is trying to cause me an aneurysm, but they're doing an outstanding job so far. Oh, and make someone get me Ibindikhel on the line, right now.”

“The embargo,” Dwalin reminds him. 

“Is mainly Grey making sure no one is peeking over his shoulder. I want Ibindikhel up to speed and in my office at the earliest possible occasion, which means tonight, even if you have to drag him out of bed. We will get to the bottom of this, one way or the other...”

Yes, trudging on. He's so good at that. Mostly because he's worried that if he were to stop, he might never gather the strength to get moving, ever again.

 

Not sleeping, he's good at that also. It must be deep, deep into the night after he finishes with Bard, the journalist as energetic and eager as ever when he learns the news, and Thorin admires him for that, for seeing some way out of everything, coming up with a hundred solutions and plans of action a minute. Thorin is not a fan of complete transparency, values the family's personal space more than anything, but he knows he will need someone with Ibindikhel's... zest, however this turns out.

Because as far as he's concerned, it's all beginning to hit a little too close to home. He sits on the sofa in his apartment for what might be hours, nursing a glass of whiskey and glaring at the glow of the city on the horizon, coloring the night sky in unnatural oranges, and wonders if someone is out there doing their best to actually make him break. No, he does not believe in miracles – he's never been given a single reason to. Quite the opposite in fact, the fate of him and his family has been as far from miraculous as it gets. So as far as he's concerned, this must be some elaborate ruse to sap him of any energy left before the elections. He'd actually let himself believe that they might all of them enjoy a moment of peace when Karkâl's party started practically undermining itself – there was a time, he thinks, when he was actually looking forward to the court sessions with the man and his colleagues, because it meant things were moving ahead, it meant that he could breathe free for the first time in what felt like a millennium...

When the haze on the horizon transforms from artificial to genuine, the pinkish glow of the coming dawn, he remembers something his grandfather used to say – _you don't 'catch a glimpse' of a new hope. You're blinded by its headlights and fail to notice the collision you're speeding towards._ Granted, the man had been succumbing to his sickness for some time by then, but, well, his way with words survived. Thorin tries to make himself think thoughts miles away from how immense stress had most likely been the culprit of the onset of Thror's madness. Paranoia had been how it started.

The line between dozing off and sort of just drifting between consciousness and sleep has been very hazy for him for some time now, and so he can't quite discern how long he's managed to rest when a knock on the door finally rouses him. Balin, purposeful as ever, makes him take a shower by saying nothing, simply offering a very discreet glare only he is capable of, and Thorin opts for cold water, hoping it will get his blood pumping. That lasts him about twenty minutes.

The call comes when he's sitting in the car on the way to the secret services' offices. Thorin hears the words ' _partial match_ ' and ' _inconclusive_ ', and lets Balin worry about setting up a time for him to provide a blood sample – knows he doesn't have to ask him to push it as far ahead in his schedule as possible. He withstands more than two hours of the Chief of Police and Bard Ibindikhel snarling at each other, even manages to down a cup of coffee somewhere along the way, and is immensely glad to refuse when Balin offers to cancel some of his usual daily duties – a simple diplomatic hassle or two, some important signing here and there, providing a quote about the current state of affairs in the EU, all of that might take his mind off... the rest, he hopes.

All around him, the city is alive with the concluding Peace celebrations, and there is a speech to be made on Sunday, and Ibindikhel is already 'operating under the assumption' that they might need to mention Thorin's father in it, and Thorin thinks, _please let him rest in peace. Please let him have actually died in that riot ten years ago, because this what neither he nor I deserve._

Only letting a nurse take his blood upon returning to the hospital makes him realize he's been running on fumes, and so he has an entirely surreal moment there, ordering Balin, anyone, to fetch him something properly greasy from the nearest food stand, and eating it on one of those horrendously uncomfortable benches in a bland corridor of the hospital, watching blearily as Dwalin has his men 'secure the perimeter'. He's sorely reminded of the last time he'd sat in a hospital like this – he was waiting for Dís to give birth to her second son, and for some reason, he was terrified, convinced that if he were to leave even for a second, something terrible would surely happen. Even though her husband had been in there with her. He remembers the buzzing of the overhead lights as if it were yesterday, remembers pacing back and forth on the squeaking floor, remembers that nothing had felt more important than seeing his sister through it (even though he had, in fact, not been seeing her through it per se).

Remembers her pale, pale face, damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead, and the satisfied, exhausted smile as she showed him the tiny bundle by the name of Kili, fast asleep and so fragile Thorin's breath had caught in his throat as he reached to stroke him on the back of his hand, his thumb covering it whole.

The urge to see his nephews is sudden and overwhelming, and he feels, really feels, the utter exhaustion for the first time that day when he realizes he will likely not get back to the Palace in time to bid them good night. 

Seeking out Bilbo when he does finally return feels like the most natural thing he's ever done, and the absurdity of it only catches up with him when he's raising his hand to knock on the door to his apartment – he turns on his heel and scurries away like a startled teenager, but Bilbo catches up with him, and Thorin struggles to even keep himself upright when he reaches for his hand. The relief as Bilbo leads him inside is so immense he feels all remnants of energy quite literally seep away through his fingers, and he doesn't even think twice before asking to be allowed to slump into Bilbo's armchair.

And it shouldn't be that easy, telling him everything, but his arm rests around Thorin's shoulders like a life jacket, warm and reassuring, and he didn't think it possible for someone to worry about him so much, never even stopped to consider it might be less of a nuisance and more of a comfort. But here he is, resisting the urge to bury his head in Bilbo's embrace and fall asleep like that, and surely it must come at a cost? But he has not slept in two days, and he fails to see it. For now.

They kiss that night, and the night after that Thorin sits next to him as he reads a bedtime story to the boys, and it's so cozy in their room, so peaceful that Bilbo's words almost lull him to sleep as well. It's simple, talking to him, touching him, and nothing has ever been simple in Thorin's life before. Nothing has felt this right in a long time. With Kili curled up in his lap half asleep, and one hand on the small of Bilbo's back, Thorin thinks that even if the rest of his world comes crumbling down around him, he will do his very best to keep this. 

 

“It's a match, sir.”

The words ring in his ears as he marches through the vast hallways of the Gabil Dum, and he's afraid, very genuinely unsteady on his feet, and that doesn't happen to him often. He's forgotten how debilitating it feels. Bard is hurrying by his side, talking of the benefits of the media explosion about to come, but Thorin refuses to listen to any of that until...

“Through there, Your Majesty,” someone points him in the direction of a door half ajar, and he realizes he doesn't even know how he got here, how his feet carried him up the numerous flights of stairs.

He searches for a familiar face and meets Dwalin's and Balin's, the brothers side by side, eying him cautiously, and, if he's not mistaken, with quite the undercurrent of anxious worry. He does what he does best, nodding to them firmly, and strides past the huddle of security guards and medical professionals into the room. They're in the private section of the vast building, somewhere in the quarters Thorin sometimes spends the night in, which will be the case today as well – the rooms are all beautiful, spacious, tall windows and high ceilings, and...

His legs simply refuse to carry him further when he's met with the gaze of bright blue eyes, striking in comparison with the rather worn out look of the man in the bed. There is less machines and more color in his cheeks, he's sitting propped up by numerous pillows, and looks close to breaking, like a stray waft of wind might blow him away, and yet...

They might stare at each other for hours or mere seconds, it's hard to tell. Thorin's heart hammers against his ribcage, his palms sweating.

“Who are you?”

Miraculously, the words are his own.

The man blinks, tilting his head, as if he's not quite sure what he's seeing is real. Well, that makes the two of them.

“I'm not so sure,” he says incredibly slowly, and the line of Durin has a long-standing record of strong, enduring hearts, but Thorin's feels like it might give way and burst nevertheless.

He doesn't believe in miracles, but maybe, just maybe he believes in recognizing the voice of his long lost father, hoarse and quiet as it might be. He takes a cautious step forward, and then another, and then he's standing by the bed, and someone has very intelligently made sure that there is a chair waiting there for him. The man watches him sit down, their gaze never severing, and the whole world has slowed down – nothing beyond this room holds much importance, not until Thorin re-learns how to breathe properly.

“They tell me we... are at the Gabil Dum?” the old man speaks, and Thorin gapes at him for a good long while before nodding shortly.

“Hmm. I remember it smaller.”

“What else do you...” he starts, but is forced to clear his throat halfway through, his voice not quite cooperating, “what else do you remember?”

The man's gaze drops to his own hands, blue veins protruding under pale skin, then out of the window, then back to Thorin.

“Apples,” he says at last, and of all the things Thorin had expected to hear...

“Apples,” he repeats weakly.

“The smell of them,” the man sighs, “bonfires and apples, that's all I've been able to... to remember all day. They keep asking me about the revolution. They keep asking me...”

He trails off, and Thorin doesn't respond. He closes his eyes, sees the old apple tree Frerin would scale so effortlessly, sees Dís helping father kindle the fire, remembers burning apple after apple, but oh, how worth it the slightly bitter taste had been when he got it right. _No, don't let it near the fire, only use the smoke, see, high up like this, Thorin... Thorin..._

“Thorin.”

Oh, so his father calling his name was not a dream.

Opening his eyes is among the hardest things he's had to do lately, and that's certainly saying something. The man is still there, still breathing, still terrifyingly within reach.

“Thorin,” he repeats, quiet and rasped, “I remember you.”

Thorin opens his mouth to reply, but fails, of course he does.

“You're really King?” the man murmurs, and Thorin can only nod.

“You saved the country? They tell me it's been... ten years, and you...”

Speaking is difficult for him, but it is nothing compared to Thorin's own inability to produce a single sound, his throat too dry.

“I can't,” he tries, “I mustn't believe this, you... You can't be him.”

“Ten years,” the man repeats slowly, and to Thorin's immense surprise, he smiles, “I don't think I am him. You know, they thought I was a... yes, a security risk. Look at me. I can barely move. I can barely...”

His short-lived monologue dissolves in dry coughs, and Thorin hands him the glass of water from the nightstand without thinking. The man's fingers are frail, so frail, and incredibly soft when they close around Thorin's, and Thorin watches him drink, watches the wrinkles criss-crossing his forehead, eyelashes fluttering, and thinks, _you can't be him. You mustn't be him. I don't deserve you to be him._

“Frerin,” the old man says when he can speak again, and Thorin's heart sinks.

“He's not...”

“Yes, I know.”

Icy blue eyes are measuring Thorin again, and the man seems to have shrunk in the large pillows, his fingers still clutching the half-empty glass like an anchor.

“I remember what I did,” he breathes out, “I remember what your... grandfather did. Your mother would always say, what was it... Bad dreams shouldn't... won't...”

“Bad dreams won't catch you if you stop hiding and fight.”

_ Bad dreams won't catch you if you stop hiding and fight,  _ and a glass of warm milk before bed, and lullabies about bravery rather than hiding.  _Your mother would want you to be brave._ He's been told this since he was ten years old, been expected to chin up, square his shoulders and, yes, trudge on. At some point, he'd stopped  hiding from the bad dreams, and simply walked on past them, convincing himself they didn't exist...

“ _Adad,_ ” he exhales, a quiet, broken sound, and _he_ feels smaller in his chair now, feels decades of steely resolve peeling off, leaving him vulnerable and in pain.

He rests his forehead against the cool white sheets, and before long, he feels a hand on the back of his head.

“Thorin.”

His father now has ten years' worth of bad dreams to catch up on, and Thorin has ten years' worth of bad dreams to unload, and it's certainly not fair, certainly inconvenient, certainly so,  _so_ unlikely to help either of them...

“I'm sorry,” he groans, straightening up and dragging his hands over his face, “I'm so sorry.”

Thrain (the first time he allows himself to think of him with that name, and it's a relief as much as it is terrifying) is smiling, albeit incredibly wearily, and one weak, stick-thin hand is outstretched toward Thorin. He cradles it in both of his with extreme care, unable to tear his gaze away from it – it might yet disappear at any minute.

“My boy,” Thrain sighs, “ _I'm_ sorry. I'm sorry I left you.”

“You didn't... You were gone, you were...”

“I don't know,” Thrain answers a question Thorin didn't ask, “but I expect I... look the part.”

Thorin huffs a laugh, so broken it's almost a sob, and ever so slowly, Thrain beckons him closer, reaching up and cupping his cheek, barely enough strength in it to register, and yet it feels simultaneously like it's giving Thorin back the life he didn't know he'd had within him, and taking away any remnants of his bitter, tightly wound resolve. His outer shell has been diamond-hard all these years, impenetrable and weighing him down every step he took, but it's cracking now, and it's not the same as when he'd let a certain Englishman peek beyond it. This is, and is going to be, everything but simple,  a long way towards pleasant and not terrifying, but Thorin is... he's ready.

“It's really you,” he says, so feeble his voice doesn't even sound like his own.

“I think so,” Thrain murmurs, “tell me... everything, please? I remember so little about this... this country, about all of it.”

“Of course,” Thorin manages a watery smile, “where would you like to start?”

Thrain's brow furrows, as if he's concentrating very hard on remembering something, but then his eyes light up, and he asks, positively exhilarated: “Where's D í s? Bring her, why isn't she here already?”

And yes, the shell that has helped Thorin get through everything up to now is definitely gone for good, because the tears come and get the better of him before he can so much as peep.

 

Everything is slightly different from then on, like some tiny invisible cog in the machinery of his life has been reset with the tiniest difference in the frequency with which it clicks. He breathes differently. After all the compulsory damage control with the press and the police, he spends the rest of the day with his father, his mind still wrapping itself around the term only very cautiously. There are tears in Thrain's eyes when Thorin describes the Gundabad tragedy to him, and here's a man who has not cried in ten years, or perhaps even longer than that, and he stops Thorin immediately when he starts apologizing, telling him it's not his fault. As simple as that. 

Before(as Thorin decides to refer to it, the word pitifully little to describe the ten years and the enormous gap between then and now), Thrain had been a strict father – loving, but strict. Duties had held the utmost importance, which is why Thorin is perfectly ready to accept the blame of failing to protect his family. He sees the grief of losing yet another child without being there settle heavy in father's features, but then Thorin mentions Fili and Kili, and it's like waving a magic wand. Thrain demands to hear everything about them, and demands to know everything about a great many other things, and it takes ages, because he doesn't last long awake, but ages Thorin is willing to give.

He tells him about the boys' lives, tells him about Bilbo, naturally (though omitting the... subtler details, leaving those for much later, or, who knows, perhaps never), promises he'll arrange for them to meet him soon. They speak of politics, Thorin describing the upcoming elections, and, yet again, deciding to skim the less pleasant parts pertaining to Bundushar and the rest, and no matter what he talks about, his eyes are glued to his father.

Thrain is paper-thin and fragile, and sometimes gets a couple of words mixed up, sometimes drifts off in the middle of a sentence, and his memory is still less than stellar, but he complains vigorously when a nurse comes with a bowl of healthy (and thus rather unsavory-looking) broth of some kind, and more pills than any one man should take at once, and Thorin really recognizes him then. The fire is still in there somewhere, nothing but glowing embers now, but there is no doubt in Thorin's mind that it will be rekindled eventually.

He does his best to work towards that, talking about what he senses will excite father, from the renovations that have been done in both the _Hurmulkezer_ and the city itself, and the opera which he had always loved so much, and of course the Princes - there's always more stories to share about the Princes. And sometimes he does catch a ghost of some sort of sadness flash across Thrain's face, of having wasted so much time and of not having been there to witness everything he's being told about in person, but the time to bring that up will come later, he's sure.

He goes over the revised final speech interrupted by nothing but the quiet breathing of his father sleeping nearby, and he really doesn't want to be using the word ' _miracle_ ' when addressing the whole nation the next day, but then again, perhaps there really is no avoiding it.

Because what he witnesses the next day can't really be described in any other way. If there is any doubt left within him, it's guessing how the boys will handle the news, and they... take it in stride. So effortlessly. 

“Why didn't he come home sooner?” Kili wants to know, and Thorin's heart skips several beats, but Bilbo is there by his side to explain the situation in the simplest possible manner.

The few moments before the boys gather enough courage to speak to Thrain are painfully breathless, but then Kili breaks the ice like he always does, and Fili follows, carefully but surely, and Thrain speaks to them slowly, still weighing each word like he needs to get used to it all over again, but the spark, the gleam in his eyes is the brightest since he awoke. A faint, shaky gasp comes from Bilbo, and Thorin realizes he's come a bit undone himself, his eyes welling with tears, but there it is again, the strange sort of familiarity when he gazes at his Englishman – like he has nothing to hide, no need to pretend this moment is anything less than utterly emotionally dismantling. Their hands entwine, and from then on, Thorin doubts nothing. Seemingly moments later, the boys and him are standing on the balcony from which all the great speeches of the past have been made, Kili clutching onto Thorin's hand with both of his while Fili gazes firmly ahead, both of them utterly calm, quiet, and below them, the nation learns of the existence of miracles.

 

And here he is, mere days later, and it feels like another decade has passed. Bilbo stirs again on the sofa, shuffling and turning, producing some sort of horribly attractive wordless complaint, possibly pertaining to the fact that he's folded up in a position that doesn't allow for much comfort. But he doesn't wake yet, and Thorin clutches his glass of water, toying briefly with the idea of stroking his hair, touching his arm, getting closer to him in any way possible.

Out of all the things he'd never expected he'd be deserving of one day, it was the almost frighteningly natural closeness that's come to blossom between him and Bilbo. They've barely had time for each other save a couple of stolen moments ever since Thrain had been transferred to the Palace, and seeing him like this, blissfully unaware and sleeping like he hasn't had the time to in days, Thorin wonders if it's been taking its toll on him, all of it. If he's being selfish, seeking solace with Bilbo. He might walk away any minute, fade away from him, and there would be nothing Thorin could do about that. He hopes for very little, and yet receives a lot.

Last night, Bilbo had asked him if he could talk to his father, just talk, and it had been such a simple request, and yet he'd seemed so nervous about it – Thorin doesn't think he'd quite managed to convey just how much it had touched him, just how much it meant to him. The fact that Bilbo would _care_ so much. He'd been nervous himself the day before, when father had become properly difficult for the first time, refusing to stay in his quarters or anywhere in close proximity to any of his caretakers, and Thorin had had no one to look after him. He'd regretted asking after Bilbo the second he told Balin to fetch him, but Bilbo had seemed so unfazed, kept Thrain company for _hours,_ and what's more, father had seemed extremely pleased afterward, and Thorin had been so confused, because living in this brave new world where everyone got along and problems seemed almost non-existent, had come without a manual and everyone else seemed so much better at navigating it.

Moreover, he hasn't had anyone to confide his fears to since... well, since Dís, and here he was, talking to Bilbo about how it was all too good to be true, how he was worried it would all fade away and prove to be nothing but a dream when he wasn't looking. He didn't know if Bilbo understood that he himself was an inherent part of the worries that occupied Thorin's mind, and Thorin didn't know whether he should tell him. Then last night, Bilbo kissed him like no one had ever kissed him before, like he was on a mission to convince him that he wanted nothing more than that, and Thorin was inclined to believe it, if even for a while. Just as Dwalin knocked on the door, utilizing one of his secret skills and interrupting at the least opportune moment, a hunger had begun rising in Thorin, something he hadn't felt in years, something he'd decided a long time ago would be better off forgotten...

His father had woken up and demanded Thorin's presence to answer some no doubt burning questions about some event that had happened about fifteen years ago, but fell asleep again shortly after, to Thorin quietly describing it to him, and after he'd backed out of his room carefully, Thorin wanted nothing more than to return to his own quarters and learn more about the way Bilbo's kisses could make his mind go perfectly blank, but was met with Dwalin's glare instead.

Dwalin had worried in his very own particular way, and Thorin had had enough patience for it his whole life, but that night, it felt like he'd heard one sermon too many from his oldest friend.

' _How long do you think you can keep this up?_ ' Dwalin asked him, insubordinate in the way only him and Balin had ever been allowed to be, and Thorin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He let him say his part, about duties and devoting his energy to what really mattered, and devotion in general, hands folded behind his back and gazing out of the window at the park four stories below them, the lamps like pools of orange in the velvet black of the greenery, and smiled at him when he was finished.

“How long do _you_ think you can keep this up?” he noted, and Dwalin frowned, cocking an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“If I'm not mistaken, you haven't spoken to my father once since he... appeared,” Thorin said quietly, “we spoke about Frerin _and_ Dís at length, you know, and he asked after you.”

He felt Dwalin tense up, though it had been very professionally concealed – Thorin would have expected no less.

“He did?” Dwalin grunted.

“Yes. Half the time, he's less than coherent, you see, but he has a very particular mindset when it comes to... well, blame. Called it a 'dead man's perspective' once, I think. Says there's no use in blaming ourselves for what is long gone.”

Dwalin said nothing for a very long time, and when he did, his voice lacked any strength – it was the first time in years that he'd let his guard down like that. Between the two of them, they'd never required very many words.

“ _Someone_ must take the blame.”

“Yes,” Thorin smiled.

“Not you.”

“Not you either.”

“Thorin, it was _my fault._ I never should have let Frerin out of my sight, and the Princess – oi!”

“She used to smack you over the head when you refused to call her by name, didn't she?” Thorin chuckled, and felt strangely lightheaded as Dwalin merely gaped at him in utter shock, having failed to dodge his half-hearted blow despite all his honed reflexes.

“Frerin was reckless,” he said then, quietly, and Dwalin eyes widened, “should we have seen it coming, all of us? Maybe. Could we have prevented it? In a hundred different ways, I imagine. But it _happened,_ and we can't change that, not now, not here.”

“I should have been there,” Dwalin protested, “ _I_ was reckless and let Frerin slip out, and if I had been there in Gundabad-”

“Then you wouldn't be here right now,” Thorin said firmly, and Dwalin's lips parted in a ghost of a refusal, but he never worded it out.

“My father doesn't blame you for what happened,” Thorin continued, “and I don't either. Extend the courtesy to yourself.”

Leaving Dwalin flabbergasted was not a feat easily accomplished, but Thorin left him to it and left for his rooms, only to find Bilbo sound asleep on the couch, yet another fragile thing to worry about – or perhaps not. Perhaps, if he were careful enough, Thorin might learn to take his own advice by Bilbo's side. It was worth a try.

 

At last, Bilbo wakes, and Thorin feels momentarily guilty, before he realizes that he hasn't made a sound – that is unless shameless staring produces sound waves. A smile quirks Thorin's lips as he watches Bilbo regain some sense about his surroundings, and his heart skips a beat when dark blue eyes peer up at him. Bilbo startles upright with a gasp, clearly under the impression that he must look utterly hideous, or that Thorin will be angry that he's actually spent the night, in a sense – a notion that Thorin must dispel as soon as possible.

“Good morning,” he chuckles.

“G-good morning,” Bilbo stammers, raking his hand through his hair, looking around frantically, sighing in relief when he notices his glasses on the end table nearby.

Thorin is content to simply watch, eyebrows arching up when Bilbo scrambles to his feet, making a feeble attempt at smoothing down his shirt.

“You let me... sleep at the couch,” he observes nervously.

“I did. I admit I entertained the idea of... carrying you elsewhere, but...”

Bilbo actually blushes profusely, and Thorin doesn't think there ever was a better early-morning sight.

“You should have woken me up, I wouldn't want to impose...”

“Impose on what? The sofa?” Thorin grins, and Bilbo's brow furrows, like he can't quite believe Thorin would dare joke in a situation like this.

“I mean I shouldn't have...”

“Fallen asleep?” Thorin continues with the easy tone as long as it lasts him, “I'm the one who was gone too long. Could I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

“I...” Bilbo grunts, seemingly about to protest some more, but then he deflates, offering a faint smile of his own, “yes, alright. I'd love some. What... what time is it?”

“Barely six,” Thorin supplies as they move to the kitchen.

“What are we doing up at 'barely six'?” Bilbo grumbles, looking unbearably adorable rubbing his eyes and polishing his glasses with the hem of his shirt, “wait, is this when you usually get up?”

_ What have you done? _

“Not usually, no,” Thorin replies, shaking off any remnants of the uneasiness the nightmare had brought.

“Oh. I didn't snore, did I?” Bilbo offers an apologetic grimace.

“Not that I'm aware of,” Thorin grins, “and even if you did, I would have been immensely impressed if it actually managed to wake me one room over.”

“Well, erm,” Bilbo clears his throat, his mind perhaps wandering in the same direction as Thorin (that is, wondering if they'll ever get the chance to find out how their sleeping habits might coexist), “window-shattering snoring runs in the family, you know. Be glad you'll never meet my uncle Fillibald.”

“Was he the one with all the horses?” Thorin remembers a piece of trivia about Bilbo's family that Bilbo must have shared with him months ago.

“Oh, no no, that was Uncle Bullroarer – well, that's what they called him,” Bilbo explains hastily when Thorin tilts his head in confusion, “his actual name was Robert. Anyway, he was the one with the horses. Fillibald was the one who wrote all the travel companions. Oh, never mind.”

“No, please,” Thorin smiles, preparing their two cups, Bilbo's preferred combination etched in his mind ever since... oh, ever since he can remember, “do tell me more about your Uncles. I mean, the names alone...”

And that's it. It's so simple. So, so simple. Thorin's occupation has always required him to be capable of holding a conversation on any topic imaginable, but this is different. Effortless and quick. Entertaining. Many things about Bilbo are yet an enigma to him, but he can't get enough of his presence. ' _Keep a safe distance_ ', Dwalin had told him at one point, and Thorin can't for the life of him figure out why he would ever want to do that. He knows that eventually, they will have to start talking about... well, about the future of this arrangement they've got going on, but for now, it's just so _easy,_ and what on earth is wrong with that? Thorin has never had anything come easy to him in his entire life. He thinks he's allowed to fool himself into thinking that this one thing will always be so easy, at least for a while.

They share lunch together, Bilbo, the boys, his father and him, and it's... god, it should be the strangest thing ever, shouldn't feel as natural, as comfortable. Kili chatters away about the his school's drama class project, confident he can land the lead in their rendition of _Blood Red Fields,_ one of Erebor's more grim fairy tales. Fili adds a couple of details from his own studies, and Thrain listens to them intently, having refused to stay in the wheelchair they'd brought him in and sitting proudly at the table with everyone else, and Thorin alternates between admiring the view that are his nephews, happy and obviously excited, and trying to convey his gratitude in the short glances he sends Bilbo's way.

The week ahead is challenging as it is, but somehow Thorin finds it all almost frighteningly easy to handle. He sits through numerous court hearings with more or less shady members of Karkâl's party, even meets the man himself in a rather informal setting and manages not to strangle him where he stands, which he considers a great achievement. Bundushar makes a grand speech for this or that foreign reporter, where he announces that it might be ' _necessary to at least consider the option_ ' of postponing the elections ' _in current circumstances_ ', which obviously causes an uproar, and Thorin is expected to respond immediately, which he does, quickly and relentlessly.

“Mister Bundushar forgets that the ailments of the party he's chosen to support, while regrettably inconvenient, are not cause enough to stall the necessary,” he quips, “and I resent the accusation that the integrity of the Crown has suffered in any way due to recent events. The elections will proceed as planned – I believe that it is absolutely vital to maintain at least some sort of order in these times, trying as they may be for some.”

Many people do their best to discredit him, make him into some sort of a martyr or a man on the brink of a breakdown, but the truth is, he has not felt better in a long, long time. The bad dreams plague him still, sometimes more vivid than he'd like, sometimes nothing more than a lingering unease when he wakes up, but at least he's capable of sleeping. Ibidikhel works around the clock, the media wrapped around his finger, and so do the secret services, but Thorin no longer feels like he barely has enough solid ground to stand on. There is still immense pressure, yes, building up by the minute as the elections near, but there is also his father, now found in Thorin's office more often than not, leafing through documents that are two, five, eight years old to get up to speed. There are Fili and Kili, who Thorin makes a point of seeing every day, sometimes to help Fili with a particularly difficult Maths problem and ending up all but held hostage in the Princes' room for over an hour, sometimes to just stop by to bid them goodnight. And there is Bilbo, who in turn makes a point of telling him everything that goes down every day. Bilbo who makes sure the boys and Thrain meet for at least a short while almost every day, Bilbo who does indeed have long conversations with Thorin's father himself, ' _mostly about the weather_ ' he jokes. Bilbo who, at some point, starts spending most of his free time in Thorin's quarters.

They don't talk about it, or address it much – it just happens. Somehow they agree that it's a better spot to meet than Bilbo's tiny apartment, and the first time Bilbo comes knocking on his own, Thorin feels a strange sort of thrill – they've barely had the time to be with each other properly, ' _in actual daylight_ ' as Bilbo remarks, and moreover, Thorin doesn't think that there's been a single instance when they could abstain from seeking out each other's closeness in any way imaginable. They still don't have enough time, might never have enough time in fact (Thorin wonders if he will _ever_ be able to snatch a couple of hours away from his duties to take Bilbo out for that dinner he'd promised so long ago), but the illusion of peace is perfect when they sit side by side on the sofa, watching the late-night news, or when Thorin types away on this report or that and Bilbo reads, quiet as a mouse... 

They need this, both of them, Thorin thinks – this normalcy. He doesn't ask Bilbo to stay overnight, even though he mostly looks like he wants to – both of them usually need to get up rather early, and moreover, Thorin is feeling... it's hard to describe. A bit worried, a bit timid all of a sudden – but for his part, Bilbo is perfect at offering as much as space as Thorin needs at any given time. And so they drink tea rather than coffee together (' _It's past midnight, for crying out loud – I don't think the country would profit from you developing an early heart condition!_ '), and sync up their schedules, and sometimes Thorin discovers Bilbo already in the room, watching TV with Thrain and matching him par for par when it comes to vigorous complaining, and sometimes they spend thirty minutes together, sometimes an hour, sometimes three.

Thorin would like to find the words to tell Bilbo that this is exactly what he needs right now, and how grateful he is, and that he can't quite imagine going on without him anymore... But for the most part, he's content with stealing chaste kisses in the kitchen (Bilbo is adamant on late-night snacks, which Thorin couldn't object to even if he tried), and on the creaking leather of the couch, and by the large windows, wondering if anybody can see, but not really caring. Both Balin and Dwalin tell him over and over again to be careful, to think it through, to wait with any big revelations or decisions for after the elections, and he agrees and nods and assures them that he has everything under control, and thinks of how Bilbo's hands feel on his cheeks. He's in... he's in love at the most inconvenient of times, and yet it gives him the strength to get out of bed every morning and face the world that's only been throwing some truly horrendous stuff his way until very recently, and there is a small miracle in that. Thorin is beginning to believe that if one only adjusts one's expectations, small miracles are, in fact, everywhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's POV ahoy! This was immensely fun to write, a great relief from Bilbo to be a bit blasphemous slash completely honest, and... yeah. Very introspection heavy, so I applaud you if you managed to read through the bulk of it! And yes, there are indeed only five more chapters to go. I suffered through a minor existential crisis upon hitting 200k words, and I really do think we need to see this story through at long last :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Storm season is coming, after all."

 

The Staff building is unnaturally dark as Bilbo nears it. He feels a bit guilty about spending less time with his friends and colleagues this past week, but is there even anyone inside? Nothing but the whirring of the water dispenser greets him when he enters the building, and the lights in the kitchen are on, but no one responds to his calls. He tries his damnedest to remember if there is some sort of event going on – has his perception of timelines and dates been warped beyond all recognition just because he's been spending a little more time concentrating on Thorin's schedule, rather than his own?

Oh, who is he kidding, of course it has. At some point not so long ago, he began retreating to the King's apartment whenever their free time coincided, and he suspects neither of them even really know how it happened. All he knows is his head is full of about three different schedules right now – Thorin's, the Princes', and his own – and all his energy is devoted to balancing them out. He'd call it exhausting, if it weren't so exhilarating. Up to this point, he's felt like he was pretty good at it too, but could he have really missed something so important that it had the entirety of the staff occupied on a Saturday evening?

“Hello?” he peeps, entering the cafeteria, but there is nothing there but the dark outlines of the tables and the armchairs, a small red light flickering on and off on the television, and he feels a chill creep up his spine...

The wall of noise almost knocks him off his feet, the lights switched on all but blinding him, and a shocked gasp escapes him as the room is suddenly _nothing but_ people, cheering and laughing, and it takes him a long, long time to figure out that they're cheering and laughing _for him._

“Happy birthday!” Bofur, the first familiar face among the crowd, finally says something Bilbo can understand, but he still can't but gape at him.

“H-happy birthday?” he repeats weakly as the others crowd around them – there's Deidre and the maids, the cooks, the Princes' riding instructors, the piano teacher...

“Fridda?!” Bilbo mewls weakly.

“Happy birthday!” she laughs, and he looks from her to Bofur, who is positively beaming, and the rest, and he feels a bit faint.

“You...” he attempts, then has to start all over again because his voice is all hoarse and useless, “you... my birthday?”

They all laugh at his lack of eloquence.

“Yes, it is your birthday, isn't it?” Bofur grins.

“But I didn't... I wasn't going to...”

“Cake!” comes a victorious cry, and then there are Bombur and Mirjam, the Head Chef carrying in what looks like a chocolate cake to end all chocolate cake, and Bilbo is beginning to feel rather unsteady on his feet.

“What have you... oh god, you shouldn't have,” he squeaks, and they're all laughing and patting him on the back, and...

“We had to,” Fridda smiles at him, and he stares at her in complete awe until Bombur hands him a rather large knife, and yet again, it takes Bilbo ages to figure out what on earth he's supposed to do with it.

“Sorry for the lack of candles,” the chef says, “but we doubled the amount of chocolate to make up for it. Happy birthday!”

“I...” Bilbo sighs, and they're all looking at him, and the knife hovers unsteadily over the no doubt absolutely delicious cake, and he feels so overwhelmed he thinks he might faint if he doesn't sit down soon...

“Thank you,” he peeps, then, clearing his throat, “thank you. You really shouldn't have, I... I actually haven't celebrated my birthday in ages, it's more of a grim reminder than anything else, and this is... Well, unexpected, and – and wonderful. I don't know how to thank you, I...”

“A slice of cake would be a nice way to do that,” Bofur grumbles under his breath, and everybody laughs, and Bilbo finds he's giggling as well.

“Alright, alright, here I go.”

“Make a wish,” Fridda tells him quietly right before he cuts into the crust, and she's smiling, and everyone else is smiling, and Bilbo, more than anything, wishes for this to never end. Wishes that this were all there was to his stay here – finding people who consider him important enough to throw a surprise birthday party for him, of all things. Wishes he were able to think in other terms than ' _too good to be true_ '.

“How on earth did you put this together?” he asks Fridda when everyone has been granted their slice of the chocolate-y goodness, “it was you, right?”

“It was both of us, in fact,” Bofur chimes in, “Miss Smythe called me and wanted to know if we knew about your birthday, and, well, here we are.”

“This seemed like the best option,” Fridda nods, “you're lucky it's a Saturday.”

“But you didn't even know I would come here!” Bilbo points out, “I just wandered in for a cup of coffee, and...”

“There's a benefit to synced schedules, you know.”

That's Balin, appearing at Bilbo's side out of the blue, eyebrows arching up when Bilbo stares at him.

“I made it so that you had... nothing to distract you this evening,” he supplies, and Bilbo thinks back on Thorin's schedule, ' _office hours until eleven_ ', and doesn't know whether to be grateful or slightly sad.

“Happy birthday,” Balin smiles, shaking his hand, and Bilbo melts.

“Thank you,” he sighs earnestly.

“You are very welcome. The boys might try to jump you tomorrow, they were very excited when I told them. Just a fair warning. Now, where is that cake?”

More people pour in, congratulating Bilbo and bringing countless bottles of excellent wine, or boxes of chocolates, or even books, or alternatively apologizing for not carrying any presents, and he tries to explain to everyone over and over again that this party is the only present he really needs. There's more food and drink, and chatter and laughter, and Bilbo feels very much at home. He oscillates between the different groups by the small tables, taking the time to exchange a few words with everyone who came, and somehow managing to convince himself that yes, drinking more than one glass of the delicious wine _is_ allowed at _his own_ birthday party.

“It's a free pass to the National Theatre,” Fridda explains the contents of the beautifully decorated envelope she hands him during a calmer moment, when they're both seated by the window, Bilbo wiping the crumbs off his fingers hastily after having happily munched on a pile of Mirjam's famous pizza cakes.

“They already have an amazing selection, but they're recreating Othello before the year is over, and so much more, and this is also valid for the pop-up shows around the city, so...”

“Fridda,” he interrupts her, holding the envelope gingerly and starting to feel a bit choked up, “this is... ah, thank you. Thank you so much, I... a year long, you say? Hah, I hope I'll be here to redeem it all.”

“Where else would you be?” she grins, and he manages a faint smile, sinking back into the armchair – but fortunately the warmth in his cheeks induced by the wine, coupled with the general coziness and excitement of the current situation, manages to dispel most of his grim thoughts.

_ Thirty-five,  _ he thinks,  and the number doesn't mean much to him, but the realization that he'd very much like to celebrate other, more important numbers right here, does. He thinks back on the past week woozily, on the alarmingly peaceful almost-domesticity Thorin and him have found themselves in, and how many times he thought he could spend the rest of his days like that, seated next to the King on the comfortable sofa in his apartment, reading, or revising the Princes' homework, or trying to come up with the best way to steal another kiss. He'd walked out of his flat in London months ago without looking back once, embarked on this... this  _adventure,_ and found everything he could have ever hoped for and some things he'd never  _dared_ hope for, and... Maybe it's just his nature, but he's still worried – no, still  _certain_ that it will all fade away from him, and soon.

He downs his glass with much determination, and notices Balin waving him over from the door, probably about to leave. He finds his way there slowly, not quite dodging the numerous people who want to talk to him, but Balin seems in a very good mood when they finally stand alone in the hallway outside the room.

“You might want to, erm... check in with His Majesty, when you're done here,” he supplies uncharacteristically lightly, his cheeks slightly red, “I made sure that he would... have the evening off as well. The night, that is.”

Bilbo wants to say something, he really does, but his mouth merely hangs agape and no words come out. Balin smiles broadly, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

“Happy birthday,” he tells him earnestly, “we are... ah, well, lucky to have you. He's lucky to have you.”

“Balin,” Bilbo manages, but the man simply smiles some more, nodding at him firmly to support his statement, and then strolls away, his step somewhat unsteady.

Bilbo returns inside, a bit dazed, and he wonders if there ever will be an appropriate time to snatch one of the bottles he'd received and run away to find Thorin. He actually has no idea how these things work – is he, as the birthday boy, supposed to be the last one standing? Everybody is having such a grand time, and he can't possibly just disappear... He is manhandled by Bofur into sharing stories of his childhood, and he can't really resist, the atmosphere too enjoyable, the wine too good, the armchairs too comfortable, but fortunately, none of them are twenty anymore, and all of them have things to do in the morning, which is why the company begins dwindling around midnight. Fridda, having been unable to resist the champagne, is among the  last to run off, to catch this or that night bus that will take her home, and Bilbo walks her out, thanking her over and over again.

“Don't mention it,” she grins, “I'll talk to you later, alright? Has Bard called?”

“No, ah... should he have?” Bilbo scratches his head, the fresh outside air not really adding to his sobriety, against his expectations.

“Don't worry about it,” she smiles, and for that one night, he decides he really won't.

He returns to the cafeteria only to see the last of the guests off, thanking everyone very earnestly, and refusing to budge when Mirjam complains when he starts helping her clean up. Soon, it's just her, Bilbo and Bofur with Bombur, and a lot of leftovers and paper plates to be thrown out, and the Head Chef and his wife chatter away about the next day's soccer game, if Bilbo understands correctly. And so he only concentrates on managing to walk from one table to another in a more or less straight line, and the immense gratitude makes him quiet.

“So,” Bofur notes conversationally, appearing at his side, “I'll see you back here next year.”

“Oh, no no, really,” Bilbo babbles, “isn't there like a rule about these things? You can't have two birthday parties in a row?”

“I don't know,” his friend grins, “is it a boring English rule? You're in Erebor, Bilbo. We celebrate what we can, when we can.”

“Right, right,” Bilbo mumbles, smiling to himself and stacking a tower of empty bowls overly carefully.

“It's Bombur's birthday in November,” Bofur tells him conspiratorially, “so this is going to happen again soon, whether you like it or not. It's just how we do things, you see. I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed it – Bofur, this was the nicest thing you could have done for me,” Bilbo tells him, “thank you. Thank you so much. I might even learn to celebrate my birthdays again, you know.”

“Good. We'll have a firework display for your fortieth – that's also a tradition, you see. Round numbers, and all that.”

“God, I don't want to think about my _fortieth,_ ” Bilbo laughs, and doesn't add, _that's five years from now and dear lord, who knows where I'll be then. I know where I'd_ like to be, _but..._

“Sorry, sorry. You age well, though.”

“I age like milk,” Bilbo supplies in a momentary fit of sarcasm, “they used to ask me for an ID until the age of thirty, but it's only been downhill from there, I'm telling you.”

“Such despair,” Bofur laughs, “forty is a wonderful age, you'll see. Or you won't – can't say I remember much from _that_ birthday party...”

They spend the next minutes like that, in cheerful conversation about nothing, stacking all of Bilbo's gifts in one of the pantries, where he'll be allowed to pick them up the next day – he couldn't really vouch for the safety of the bottles were he to carry them to his place right now, and besides, there's too many. One of them will certainly not go amiss. He makes sure to thank his friends a thousand more times, and then he hurries back to the Palace, generally tipsy and incredibly happy and lightheaded, clutching a bottle of the finest champagne he'll probably ever drink, feeling anything but thirty-five. He sobers up a little bit when he runs into the first bodyguards on Thorin's floor, but Dwalin is there, spotting him almost immediately and allowing him through.

“Happy birthday,” he supplies somewhat gruffly, eying the bottle in Bilbo's hands.

“Thank you,” Bilbo replies, feeling a sudden urge to hug the man, “am I... can I...?”

“Just got in about twenty minutes ago,” Dwalin says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Thorin's quarters.

“Balin told me...”

“Yes, I know,” Dwalin grunts, then, to Bilbo's immense surprise, offers a small smile, “just go. No one will bother you.”

“...Thank you.”

“Hmph.”

The door on the far end of the hallway opens before he can trot all the way there, and Bilbo thinks he's never felt anything more comforting than the familiarity that washes over him when he enters Thorin's apartment. He's only been spending his time here for a week or so, and already he's in love with the space, the beams by the ceiling, the wooden floor, the view... and the inhabitant, of course. Thorin is smiling at him from the door, still wearing his glasses, and he doesn't look any less or more tired than usual, but he's there, and Bilbo very honestly considers just running into his arms, self-control be damned. He raises the bottle in a sort of self-explanatory gesture instead, and the King's smile broadens even further.

“I'm assuming the party was a success?”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo grins, then, frowning, “hold on, how long have you known about it?”

“Not long,” Thorin replies innocently, “Balin thought it necessary to inform me. What are you doing next Sunday?”

A bit taken aback by the question, Bilbo peers at him somewhat dumbfounded.

“I, uh... oh my, I have no idea, I...”

“Dinner?” Thorin says simply, stepping closer, and Bilbo's response is a shaky sigh that tries and fails to be actual words, and then a faint nod.

“I need to write it down, though...” he begins, but Thorin gently pries the bottle away from him, taking his hand.

“Tomorrow,” he says softly, and before Bilbo can make even more of a fool of himself, the King leads him into the kitchen, of all places. _Shame on you, Bilbo Baggins, for automatically expecting the bedroom._ He swallows somewhat dryly when Thorin pours them both a glass, but, well, he thinks he deserves not to refuse it.

“Happy birthday,” Thorin declares softly, quietly, eyes dark in the dim light of the kitchen, and as they toast, Bilbo is reminded of another kitchen far away, but not so long ago, and what was the best first kiss of his life, probably. Wait, no, that had happened by that window... oh, perhaps he should have stuck to one glass of wine only.

“I'm sorry I don't have more... time,” Thorin continues, and some faint displeased intonation in his voice catches Bilbo's attention, “it would be more appropriate to have that dinner now, I know, but...”

“Gosh, no, it's fine,” Bilbo sighs, smiling, “we've talked about this. You don't have to feel sorry for, you know, ruling a country.”

“Kinging,” Thorin reminds him of a term he'd used ages and ages ago.

“Yes, that,” Bilbo grins, “I assure you, I never even expected to celebrate this in the first place, so...”

“But you wouldn't be opposed to a birthday breakfast?”

Bilbo tilts his head, and for his part, Thorin looks, if anything, a bit bashful.

“Well, I figured it's the only, erm... the only time we both actually... have some time. On a Sunday anyway. Or so I hope. I asked Deidre to restock the fridge for me, see – you said it needed that, anyway. So I was thinking...”

Bilbo watches in a sort of daze as Thorin opens the fridge, illuminating the kitchen in artificial bluish glow, revealing very well-stocked insides indeed.

“There's fruit!” Bilbo exclaims, ridiculously enough.

“Yes. And milk. And, I'm given to understand, eggs and bacon.”

“Oh my god,” Bilbo exhales, stepping closer to take a better look, “I could introduce you to the wonders of a proper English breakfast.”

“That's what I've been thinking,” Thorin chuckles, then, when Bilbo merely gapes at him, adding hastily, “I'll help, of course, I wouldn't want you to...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo cuts him off gently, “if you put me in any kind of close proximity with all this food, you can't much expect I'll be able to control myself. I'll make scrambled eggs before you can blink. It's a special talent.”

Thorin measures him wordlessly for a moment, as if he's expecting a 'but', or any sort of indication that Bilbo is anything but childishly excited about the prospect of preparing his own breakfast for the first time in ages. And Bilbo doesn't add ' _this is the most gentlemanly offer to spend the night I've ever been subject to_ '. He's not sure Thorin could stomach that – he realizes just how fragile this all is, and thinks he knows now that for all his regal calm and steely determination, Thorin is still a tad unsteady on his feet when it comes to these delicate matters. Bilbo has been doing his best to give him as much space as humanly possible, because, yet again, neither of them are twenty anymore – he suspects that in their case, haste would be the enemy of a lovely experience, ironically enough. _You don't know how much time you have left,_ rings on the back of his mind with an annoying, unceasing intensity, but he's certainly not going to give in just for the sake of rushing their intimacy (and ruining it in the process). _But this is what you've been waiting for, is it not?_ another, much more pleasant voice, reminds him, and yes, it is – he's been waiting (was ready to wait forever) for Thorin to come forward himself, and here they are, talking about sharing breakfast the next day, and what lies between then and now doesn't have any contours that might assist Bilbo, but when has that ever been a bad thing?

“My Mum used to make me pancakes for my birthday,” he supplies a bit faintly, staring into the swirling golden pool of his drink, “I think a continuation of that tradition is in order.”

“Shouldn't you... still have someone make them _for you_?” Thorin points out lightly, leaning on the counter, relaxed and unwittingly attractive in the way only he knows.

“I don't know,” Bilbo snickers, “can you make pancakes?”

“Oh... no. No, I wouldn't risk that, you're right,” comes a firm reply.

“I'll see if I can teach you.”

“I'll see if I can learn.”

Then it's less talking and more closeness and Thorin's arm around his waist, and Bilbo will never stop wondering when crossing that distance has become the easiest task ever. Thorin still kisses like he thinks Bilbo might slip away any second and never come back, and they can't have that, can they? Bilbo fumbles to set his glass down on the counter, hands in Thorin's beard as soon as they are free, and he tastes wine and sugar, his head spinning in a pleasant daze.

When he closes his eyes, he can almost see them back in the house in the mountains, hear the soft rapping of the rain and smell the faint scent of what had been the luckiest batch of blueberry cupcakes Bilbo had ever made. He thinks of the man he'd met when he got here, closed off and cantankerous on a good day, and wonders what Thorin could have been – still could be. Allows himself to wonder what little unimportant things they'd bicker about two years from now, how it would feel to wake up next to him every day, to wait for him to come back from this or that visit abroad, to make unprecedented visits into his office... To share a hundred, thousand more lunches with his father and his nephews, to read a hundred, thousand more books by his side on the sofa, all the while conveniently not remembering that he's sat down with a monarch. He's been good at that so far, anyway.

It's as if Thorin's searing hot lips are there to convince him that there's a way for all of it to work out – he's inclined to believe it. He doesn't know what Thorin believes, doesn't want to guess. Which is why, when they part and the King mumbles 'I've got something for you', it sounds to Bilbo's ears like 'Follow me', and he doesn't even question it.

Thorin does lead him to the bedroom then, and Bilbo's only ever glimpsed inside before – he does his damnedest to rein in his excitement. He falters at the doorstep nevertheless. The room is spacious, more dark wood and simple, white walls, and Bilbo drinks in the details, the suit hanging on a door that must lead to the wardrobe, another door half-ajar revealing a bathroom... the ties draped over the armchair by the window as if it isn't the most ridiculous place to store them. The bookshelf, and the rather captivating painting of a mountain range next to it.

Still, the room could do with a little more... clutter. A plant or two perhaps. The bed is set very neatly, and Bilbo knows Deidre takes care of that – he can't help but wonder how many more people have ever ventured in. He himself has been keeping his distance, to offer Thorin at least some personal space, literally, to retreat to should he ever need it, but upon entering it, he sees that it's very much like his whole persona – very clean, very stern at first sight, carefully polished so that it doesn't allow for much personal insight. Oh well. He knows how to get past _that,_ doesn't he. God, it must be all the wine, making him inappropriately brave (or just inappropriate?).

Thorin rummages through the top shelf of his nightstand, and at last takes out a long narrow box of a simple design, handing it to Bilbo, who accepts it gingerly, almost warily.

“Happy birthday,” the King repeats.

“You got me a... oh my, oh you didn't... you didn't have to, really, I...” Bilbo babbles, but his fingers work on their own, opening the lid and revealing a beautiful pen in a dark satin cache, with Bilbo's name engraved on the length of it in crisp curved letters.

“It's not much, but I just thought... Well. It's of the mithril collection the Palace had made for the Peace celebrations, and you see, they tell me mithril pens are supposed to be incredibly impractical, but I thought it was... not so bad.”

“Not so bad,” Bilbo repeats feebly, still staring at the thing – it's the not-quite-silver color of the rare metal, in fact an almost radiant white, and when he takes it out of its casing, it's pleasantly heavy between his fingers.

“I've never been too good at giving presents, actually, I... I remember I gave my sister what was supposed to be a genuine eighteenth century copy of this or that philosophical text for her twentieth birthday, but it turned out to be a cheap knock-off, and I think my father wanted to find and sue the man who'd sold it to me, I...”

There's something immensely comforting in finding out that Kings babble aimlessly as well. Fortunately, Thorin's voice kind of dies off on its own, and Bilbo realizes he himself is grinning from ear to ear.

“Thank you,” he says simply, clearly, and when Thorin's brow furrows, as if such a positive reaction was the very last thing he expected, Bilbo chuckles, closing the box and setting it on the bed as he nears Thorin.

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I love it.”

Frankly, he's glad it wasn't a watch. Or something equally as disconcertingly expensive. A pen is the perfect gift, considering that out there in the normal world, they've been... god, he doesn't even want to use the word dating, but yes, _dating_ for only a little north of three weeks. Sweet lord. Once again, Thorin seems mesmerized by the simple gesture of Bilbo taking his hands in his own, gazing down, a small smile dancing on his lips. And they're standing in his bedroom, and Bilbo still half-expects Dwalin or someone to come knocking at the door once again, but it doesn't happen. For now. He steps even closer, hands now on an upward journey from Thorin's chest to his shoulders, always an impressive feat.

It's been so long, and he doesn't possess a manual for this. Isn't sure he ever did. He vaguely remembers being used to... being taken care of, but somehow, he knows that that won't do. Not with Thorin. He's never summoned the courage to inquire about his... history, but obviously, with the position he's in, it was hardly fruitful. Bilbo finds that horrendously endearing, with a tinge of sadness of course, but here he is, and does he have what it takes to, to _take care of_ Thorin. Should he even be allowed?

The point becomes moot when they kiss again, and somehow, they manage to assure each other without words that this is indeed what they want. Whatever 'this' will amount into. No rush. No – 

“Thorin?” Bilbo manages to mumble, and feels the King literally freezing under his touch, “was that your stomach?”

Thorin is gaping at him in genuine horror, exhaling somewhat desperately before his gaze flickers away.

“I'm sorry,” he peeps feebly, “I'm-”

“ _When was the last time you ate?_ ” Bilbo demands strictly, and is perfectly aware of how incredibly surreal this is, but oh god, when was this ever going to be anything but that?

“I don't...”

“You don't remember, do you?”

He finds he's fighting off laughter, bubbling under the surface – Thorin looks like a schoolboy being scolded. A schoolboy whose grip on Bilbo's hips is immensely distracting, but there you have it.

“I didn't... think this through,” the King admits, “the whole stocking-the-fridge thing. Deidre did it when I wasn't here, and it hadn't occurred to me to ask her to fix something up for me, and I only just got in minutes ago, and I was about to take a shower and maybe eat something afterward, but then you showed up...”

“Oh god, Thorin,” Bilbo laughs, dead certain that finding out that the King is similarly hopelessly talkative when he's nervous as Bilbo himself, might be the discovery of the century.

“Alright, here's what we're going to do,” he declares, Thorin only looking up when he cups his cheek, “you're going to take a shower, and I'm going to fix you a sandwich in the meantime. That sound good?”

If he didn't know better, Bilbo would call the expression on Thorin's face 'embarrassed pouting'.

“But we... I mean, you...” he grumbles, still reluctant to look Bilbo straight in the eye.

“Yes, it is _my_ birthday, and _we_ are going to make the best of it,” Bilbo says, “but despite what you might think, your stomach grumbling is rather distracting, and sets... an entirely different kind of mood, to be honest.”

“I'm-”

“You, shower, now. Me, kitchen. We regroup in... however long it takes you.”

Thorin frowns, but it lasts about a second, before he bursts into laughter around the word, “ _Regroup?_ ”.

“I think some of Dwalin's jargon is rubbing off on me, what can I say,” Bilbo grins wide, feeling incredibly, _wonderfully_ lightheaded, “now shoo. Off you go.”

“I don't think there's much to work with, though-”

“Are you kidding? That fridge is overflowing. _Go._ Or no sandwich.”

Thorin glares at him for a while longer, but then his shoulders sag, and he smirks, hands sliding off Bilbo's waist, and he disappears obediently into the bathroom. Bilbo stands there completely useless for what might be an eon, a dopey smile on his face, but he snaps out of it quickly enough in the end, and makes his way to the kitchen. _Strangest birthday date ever. Wouldn't change a thing._

The fridge whirrs at him accusingly as he scrutinizes its innards for far too long, but at last he discovers a collection of cold cuts and bread, even some mayo (Deidre knows best), and as he spreads it, he listens to the distant hiss of the water running very contentedly. His heart flutters when it stops, and he chases away the sudden nervousness with a generous bite of his own slice of the sandwich – that's the perfect thing about late-night snacks. There's never too late for them, and the early ones can just be called dinner. He chuckles to himself, striding into the living room with a proud plate of what he thinks might be some of his best sandwich-creations... And almost ruins his masterpieces by dropping them when Thorin walks out of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a flimsy. Goddamn. Towel.

Well, alright, it might not be so flimsy, but that doesn't change the fact that it's _the only thing he's wearing,_ and his hair, usually slicked back all proper, is mussed and standing about his head all unruly, and... Well, there's the rest of him. No towel large enough to cover that chest, Bilbo speculates, some very reasonable part of his brain remembering not to let his mouth hang open. And... _really._ The man who blushes and melts under Bilbo's touches and kisses all sheepishly before Bilbo convinces him otherwise, _is perfectly fine with strolling up to him in a sodding towel._ Oh, he is _so_ doing this on purpose.

The image is ruined when Thorin makes a stop by the sofa and fishes out his robe, which, unfortunately, _is_ enough to cover at least his shoulders, and he actually looks mildly sorry for letting Bilbo get an eyeful. He offers the plate up to him wordlessly, mainly because he can't guarantee that what would come out of his mouth would be in any way coherent _or_ appropriate.

“Thank you,” Thorin sighs earnestly, and he smells of some incredibly lovely shower gel, his hair damp and his robe not even tied properly. He's barefoot, obviously, and radiates so much heat and that sort of... wet... cleanliness, that Bilbo suddenly struggles for breath. He is reminded very intensely of that one time he ran into him in the middle of the night wearing nothing but boxers and an old t-shirt, and isn't it amazing, that Kings are people too? Yes, incredible. Incredibly distracting, thank you very much.

“ _Muhud turgun_ _,_ these are so good,” Thorin expresses his gratitude regarding the sandwiches, and Bilbo grins at him somewhat uneasily.

“Good, I...”

“Oh, do you want to take a shower too?” Thorin offers then as if it's the most casual thing ever, and Bilbo gulps. Does he want to take a shower? Will his quickly overheating brain survive without it? Those are the real questions.

“I... don't have a change of clothes?” he supplies the first argument his head manages to generate.

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Thorin says, mouth full, looking really satisfied with where things are going, while Bilbo simply wonders if the prevalent heart condition from his father's side of the family might after all manifest if he decides to take a _really cold_ shower.

“A-alright,” he manages, hoping that the shower will do the same thing it did for Thorin, which is to put him almost unbelievably at ease.

It works a little bit. A teeny tiny bit. It _does not_ help to think about where exactly he's showering (the top floor of the Ereborean Royal Palace, in the quarters of its King, using his soap and glaring at his sky-blue tiles as if the weird pattern on them holds the answers to all his burning questions, _god dammit Bilbo Baggins_ ). It also does not help to slip into the old t-shirt Thorin has gotten for him, and wonder if he has very many more of those, _maybe he has band t-shirts, imagine the King going to a concert, imagine him in an old frayed Metallica t-shirt, good lord, that should not be so attractive, men in band t-shirts were never your type, but then again, you've never been with a King before..._

He realizes he's staring at his own reflection in the mirror, mostly fogged up and making him look much less tense than he's feeling. He rakes a hand through his hair, of the firm belief that ruining something that already looks like a messy pile of hay is impossible, and he manages a weak smile, cheering himself up by approximately one billionth of a percent. The sight outside the bathroom fortunately does a much better job.

Thorin is stretched over the bed, almost sitting up, propped up by numerous pillows, but he's dozing off, his head drooping to one side, hands folded on his stomach almost neatly. Bilbo hovers, unsure what he should do, but the second he braves pressing his knee into the mattress, Thorin's eyes flutter open, gleaming slits of blue, and he smiles ever so softly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Long day,” Bilbo says, dismissing the apology, finally amassing enough courage to at least sit on the damn bed.

Thorin reaches for him and their fingers intertwine, and Bilbo thinks, _alright. Alright, alright, there is a distinct possibility that this might lead to quite a number of unsavory outcomes._ But then again, he can't imagine... well, doing anything else now. Walking out of here? Out of the question. Worrying about the next day, the next couple of days, anything further than the next ten minutes? Inconclusive, and probably useless.

It's all warmth. The fabric of the t-shirt Thorin has provided for Bilbo is incredibly thin, and the King's own robe is soft and smooth, but Bilbo's more interested in the furnace underneath it. As he climbs as close as possible, Thorin's hand rests on the small of his back, and it takes about the first two seconds of kissing for Bilbo to brave pressing his palm on Thorin's chest, thumb brushing away the hem of the robe and finding skin. He heaves up higher as his fingertips travel over Thorin's collarbone to his neck, which entices a soft gasp, and Bilbo can't help but wonder mindlessly what response his lips on the same spot would bring about. As if daring him to try, Thorin wraps his arm tighter around Bilbo's waist, and even though he's a bit wary about resting his weight on Thorin's chest, it turns out he doesn't have much of a choice.

The bed creaks quietly as their weight shifts, and Thorin tenses up at first when Bilbo readjusts so that his hand can travel lower again, in pursuit of exploring more interesting regions, but when Bilbo opens his eyes to determine the situation, back gazes nothing but calm and satisfaction. He kisses Thorin so that it doesn't fade away, and his hand soon finds the loosely tied knot of the belt holding the robe somewhat in place. He feels Thorin's stomach muscles ripple and dance as he unties it, and when it's gone, brushed off, the next course of action _definitely_ needs confirming.

Thorin's eyelids are heavy, lips rosy, and Bilbo marvels, _this is a King you're unraveling. Figuratively or otherwise._

Figuratively _and_ otherwise, as it turns out. The towel is still in place, and Bilbo's fingers brush at the tightly wound hem of it, discovering the hipbone, discovering the trail of hair and the shockingly soft skin... Discovering that pushing Thorin's breath very slightly onto that right side of shaky and erratic isn't difficult at all. _Too much power for any one man,_ flashes through his mind, and he grins fondly, half-amused half-giddy, and Thorin doesn't even question it, simply smiles in return, though even that falters when Bilbo first ventures to loosen the towel.

It's been so very long for Bilbo, but then, it's been so very long for Thorin as well, if his response to Bilbo's tentative touches is any indication. He tempers his sighs with soft kisses, his fingers tangling in Thorin's damp hair and scratching gently, while his other hand is on much different duty elsewhere. Bilbo has never considered himself particularly sex-driven, always has been rather reserved, but Thorin's chest heaving under his own, his body swelling in response to his touches, reminds Bilbo what it's like to have someone who actually ignites something within him. For his part, he's much more interested in Thorin's pleasure than his own, and that's okay, probably. It's all about what he can give – in this, at least, he can be selfless for a while.

He moves to get a better... well, grasp, lips sealing on Thorin's collarbone now, and that meets with nothing but approval, Thorin gasping in something that might be the beginnings of Bilbo's name, or simply just an agreement with his course of action. Bilbo doesn't remember any of this being so effortless, ever, with anyone else. Not that he has a plethora of experience to utilize, but if he were to venture a guess, he'd probably have to say that in comparison with the King, he's led a life freer of restrictions and various rules begging to be broken. Speaking of begging... He brushes the tip of his tongue lower, valiantly so, the tempo of his stroking daring to be just a little bit faster, and Thorin grants him a genuine moan, as well as a soft murmur of a plea in Khuzdul, and Bilbo can't but look up at him. The sight doesn't disappoint, and the impossible vulnerability written all over Thorin's features makes Bilbo strain himself to get closer, cup his cheek and kiss reassurances into his lips.

“It's alright,” he mumbles breathlessly, Thorin's hips bucking up ever so slightly, “it's alright. Thorin, I'm...”

Bilbo's King comes undone with a muffled, drawn-out grunt, his neck arching, and Bilbo has forgotten all about this feeling of achievement that sends shudders up his spine. Thorin breathes deeply, almost thirstily, his eyes closed, and when Bilbo makes to crawl closer, both his arms wrap around him, and their celebratory kiss is very thorough, on the right side of wet and a tad sloppy, Thorin exhaling contentedly through his nose. Retaining at least a sliver of sensibility, Bilbo reaches for the towel to cover him, and the King harrumphs almost unhappily, but his lips spread into a smile right after. 

His eyes are dim and impossibly dark with pleasure, and Bilbo finds he can't quite get enough of the sight. Certainly the epitome of lovelorn gazing right there, but at least it's mutual. The mess between them is currently of little importance, and Bilbo watches Thorin's breathing even out, watches the tip of his tongue dance across his lips, brushes his thumb gingerly across the wrinkles fanning out from the corner of his eye.

“I'm... it's been a very long time,” Thorin murmurs almost bashfully, and Bilbo chuckles and mhm's, the warmth and softness of Thorin's embrace quickly making him very pleasantly drowsy.

“I don't think I...”

“Let's just go to sleep,” he cuts off any doubts Thorin might have, kissing his own grin into his lips until it's settled there safely.

“You don't...?”

“I'm fine,” Bilbo slurs, readjusting so that he can bury his head in the nook of Thorin's shoulder, “are you?”

“Am I – well, yes, I should think so,” Thorin replies, his gentle laughter a nice rumble reverberating through his chest and right into Bilbo's, setting him at ease, “I just think I... might want to...”

“Oh, right, yes,” Bilbo sighs, even lifting his arm off Thorin's torso an almost superhuman task, “go. I'll... be here...”

The last couple of words come out as nothing but slurred reassurances, and it might take Thorin minutes or hours, but the second Bilbo curls up on himself in the soft sheets, he begins nodding off and nothing else really matters. All he knows is that at some point, strong arms wrap around him again, and he finds comfort incredibly easily, the tender kisses pressed into his hair and wherever else Thorin can reach finally succeeding at lulling him into a very pleasant, deep, dreamless sleep. What more could he possibly wish for?

 

It doesn't go away. None of it was a dream, all of it actually happened. That's the first thing that flashes through his mind when he comes to, cozy and warm, and his first experimental movement meets with the best possible resistance, which is Thorin's body behind him. He rolls over, willing his eyes open just a little bit. Ever so slowly, he scoots closer to the impossible width of Thorin's back, draping one arm over it, cheek smushing against the base of his neck, his thumb stroking gently the soft fabric of the t-shirt Thorin must have changed into at some point. He's perfectly ready to go back to sleep like that, but Thorin stirs, exhaling deeply and raggedly, his hand closing over Bilbo's, and when Bilbo presses his lips to his back (completely uselessly to be honest, but he can't really resist), the mountain of muscle and body heat shifts and moves until they're facing each other, noses about an inch apart.

Bilbo conjures a small smile, too lazy to force his eyes open again, and Thorin's breath is hot on his cheek, his hand settling on his waist, fingers finding their way under fabric. Bilbo rewards that with a mock-displeased whimper, but his smile never stops broadening, really.

“ _Baknd ghelekh_ _,_ ” Thorin exhales.

“Morning,” Bilbo mumbles, “wait, is it? Is it morning?”

“I think so.”

“That's quite...”

But then Bilbo's brain catches up with his words, making him realize that yes, it's is _quite a lot of things,_ and his eyes flutter open.

“It's _morning,_ ” he repeats, and Thorin somehow manages to cock an eyebrow even with half his face buried in his pillow.

“That's what usually follows after the night, yes,” he chuckles, and really, the glimpse of a sense of humor is probably a testament to how relaxed he's feeling, but... No, Bilbo's mind is too muddled with feeling so comfortable as well; he can't remember what it is he's forgetting.

“What time is it?” he wonders, beginning to take in the light in the room, of the crisp golden 'definitely past his usual wake-up hours' variety.

He regrets the question immediately, because it comes with the unpleasant side of Thorin moving away, leaving behind nothing but empty, cold air. Only the shocked gasp makes him open his eyes again.

“Well?” he demands, and Thorin's eyes are wide when he turns to look at him.

“It's almost ten.”

“Ten _in the morning?_ ” Bilbo exclaims, scrambling to sit up.

“That's what the clock says.”

“It's broken,” Bilbo decides firmly, crawling over to Thorin to sit next to him, peering at the bright red digital numbers, hoping that his eyesight has gotten progressively worse overnight and he can't actually see properly at all without his glasses.

“I should have been at a meeting thirty minutes ago,” Thorin notes, rubbing his forehead, “I... swear I wanted to set an alarm last night, I...”

“The boys!” Bilbo gasps, “oh god! I was supposed to wake them, Thorin-”

“Hold on,” he says, and if his determined tone wasn't enough to calm Bilbo down, his hand on his knee definitely does the job.

Thorin reaches for the land line on the nightstand, pressing what must be a speed dial for Balin or someone like that, and Bilbo groans, hugging his arm and resting his temple against the side of it in mild exasperation.

“Balin,” Thorin says, his thumb stroking Bilbo's leg, “we – I was just wondering... What do you mean? It's _ten in the morning!_...Why? Oh. And the Italians? I... I see. Did you...? Ah. Oh, and the Princes? Uh-huh. Well then, I... Alright. No, yes, that's fine. Yes. Send them all up, just... yes. Erm. Thank you.”

He hangs up looking more dumbfounded than anything else, and Bilbo arches his eyebrows.

“So?”

Thorin gapes at him like he's a mirage for a moment, but then he sighs, scratching his head, frowning in confusion.

“So, it would seem Balin has rescheduled my meeting. And made sure the Princes had their breakfast at the usual time, and went on to their lessons. However, they seemed pretty adamant to find out what on earth was, err... going on with you, and my father also wants to speak to me, and... Balin thought it would be a good idea for us all to share another lunch... here, apparently. He'll send them all up when the boys are back, which gives us... well, a lot of time? I think?”

He says each word as if he can hardly believe it, and Bilbo's smile spreads so wide he thinks his cheeks will have to start hurting eventually.

“That's... well. Good?” he ventures a guess, and Thorin smiles.

“I suppose so. Yes.”

 

They manage to climb out of bed _eventually,_ both of them a bit dazed (among other things) at having woken up so late, and by the lack of responsibilities ahead of them. They make coffee and drink it with their arms securing each other close, gazing out of the windows in the living room, the bustle of the Palace going on about its usual Sunday business deep down below them making them feel strangely, but pleasantly detached.

Bilbo makes pancakes. He also makes generous amounts of bacon, and scrambled eggs, and anything else the fridge yields, and he only allows Thorin very little assistance (his arms wrapping around Bilbo's waist and his nose burying in his hair is quickly classified as the complete opposite of help). He feels... safe. Dangerously so, perhaps. They don't talk about last night, but it, and this continuation of it, seems to Bilbo like the most natural thing he's done in a while, devoid of unnecessary worrying, and he intends to keep it that way, if only for this one blissfully beautiful Sunday.

Only when Balin calls to confirm their plans for the lunch does Bilbo remember that he's spent the last hours in nothing but his boxers and Thorin's old t-shirt that is entirely too big for him, and all his clean clothes are one floor below them in his room – the distance from here to there seems insurmountable. At last, they agree on a very sensible plan indeed, which is for Bilbo to slip out, change at his apartment and return to Thorin's place all formal for the lunch that Deidre and her maids will bring up, blaming his sleeping in on his birthday party last night. As far as they're both concerned, it's easier for now than to explain to the Princes that he's found himself staying in their Uncle's bed overnight.

Still, he runs into far more people than he'd perhaps fancy on his way downstairs, including Dwalin, who only gives him a terse nod and a 'good morning' (even though it's less grumpy than usual, if Bilbo's brain still swimming in reckless happiness is any judge of that), and Balin, who merely confirms everything has been – and is being – taken care of, and doesn't comment any further. Oh well. Small mercies, probably.

Bilbo's own apartment seems strangely foreign, as if he's returning to it after several nights, not one, and he changes quickly, longing to be back in the King's quarters as soon as possible.

“Happy birthday!”

That's both the Princes exclaiming in unison the second he enters their rooms, and they seem so happy to see him, Kili all but launching himself into his arms, as if they haven't seen each other in years.

“Are you okay?” he asks, while Fili supplies, “Balin told us that you weren't feeling so good.”

“Under the weather! Right?” Kili says, remembering one of the phrases Bilbo taught them so long ago.

“That's right,” he grins, “I had a birthday party yesterday. And it was... well, really fun, but I think it was a bit too much excitement for me, you see. My... head hurt horribly when I woke up this morning.”

“But you're okay now? Because we have presents for you!” the younger Prince all but hops around in sheer excitement, “come on, Fili!”

Fili rolls his eyes with a grin.

“Yeah, alright, alright.”

Bilbo watches him in surprise as he goes to fetch something from his desk, but Kili is already pushing something into his hand.

“This is from me! I drew it! See? It's us, and that's the car, and we have milkshakes... this is strawberry, for Fili, and banana for me, and chocolate for you... And there's _Indâd,_ but he's small because I forgot to draw him at first, and he doesn't have a milkshake because I don't know which one he likes.”

“Oh, Kili, this is lovely,” Bilbo laughs, holding the paper very gingerly, as it's almost physically weighed down by the amount of watercolors used to paint the wonderfully chaotic picture, “thank you so much!” 

“Happy birthday,” the little Prince grins up at him, and when Bilbo ruffles his hair, he goes to chase after Muzmith the kitten, who seems a bit startled by all the ruckus, cradling her in his arms and watching as Fili brings forth his present.

“It's nothing much,” he mumbles, “but you know how I took all those photos at the house back in the mountains? And I had so many from the holidays as a whole, and I... well, I don't know what to call it in English, but I made a sort of...”

“Let me see,” Bilbo smiles, and Fili hands him what turns out to be a beautifully bound photo album.

He flicks through it, and there are tens of photos from the summer holidays, very neatly categorized according to all the places they were staying at, and accompanied by little notes in Fili's nicest handwriting. There's sunsets and sea waves from Marseilles, and morning dew and flocks of birds and meadows swimming in morning fog from the cottage of Fili's friend Ori's family, and of course the mountain house with its rose gardens and stone walls and cozy rooms. Fili really does have an eye for the subtly beautiful, Bilbo marvels.

“This is... so amazing, thank you,” he tells the Prince earnestly, “thank you very much. I'll cherish this.”

Fili seems quietly pleased, and upon agreeing that Bilbo will leave his presents in the Princes' rooms to be picked up later, he remembers that he has the same deal with Bombur and Mirjam, one of their pantries overflowing with his bottles of various alcohol and chocolate boxes from last night. If all he has to achieve today is walk to the Staff building to carry all of that back to his apartment, then he thinks it might indeed be a rather wonderful Sunday.

Thrain is already at the King's place when they arrive, with Deidre of all people fussing over him, and somehow managing to prepare the table at the same time. Thorin's father is incredibly pleased to see his grandsons though, his surly grimaces dispersing immediately and completely when they come to greet him, and Bilbo leaves them to it, hurrying after Deidre into the kitchen.

“Got everything you needed in the morning?” she asks very casually, chopping at least five different kinds of vegetables for what's shaping up to be a salad, and Bilbo freezes momentarily.

“I...” he manages.

“Did you think I'd believe His Majesty just decided all on his own to switch to a healthy diet and a full fridge out of nowhere?” she chuckles, and Bilbo blushes, grateful when she lets him near to help with the preparations.  
“Found something of yours, too,” she adds joyfully, pressing a bundle of what turns out to be his tie into his hand, “well, Thorin did, but he was too busy blushing like a teenager to figure out what to do with it. So.” 

“Oh, wow,” Bilbo sighs somewhat feebly, thus encompassing the burning awkwardness, but also the almost unbelievable 'this doesn't _actually_ happen in real life' aspect of the whole situation.

“I'll say,” she concedes, “now shoo. Off you go.”

The lunch is, much like the previous day, utterly lovely. The table they have to gather around is unlike anything any of them are used to, the boys and Bilbo usually clustering around one corner of the inconveniently long, pompous one in their dining room on the ground floor, but the lack of redundant space proves to be for the best. Kili and Fili demand to sit at each head of it, something the adults happily agree to, as it means that Thrain and his spacious wheelchair will occupy one side of the table, and Thorin and Bilbo will get to sit together at the other one.

Deidre serves them and Bilbo helps, disregarding her vehement protests completely, and he spends most of it marveling at the impossible, cozy domesticity of it all. The Princes are cheerful and loud, describing to their grandfather just how they're planning on spending the next week, Kili announcing proudly that he's going to be in another play, while Fili (with Bilbo's encouragement) manages to convey his wish for his own video camera, something he's been talking about ever since Marseilles. Thorin agrees easily enough, relaxed and smiling, and Bilbo wonders if it's _all_ because he's dared to sneak his hand to rest on his knee under the table, or if that's just minor added value. Either way, he's feeling almost proud, and definitely very very happy, seeing Thorin like this, the undercurrent of stress and tightly wound sense of duty usually lingering just below the surface now dispersed altogether. 

The vast room is bathing in golden midday glow, infinitely more homey for the additional presence, and Thorin's thumb strokes the back of Bilbo's hand before they need to part to have at least some chance of tackling the main course, and Bilbo thinks he'll never require any more of life. He's found the one thing making him feel whole again, making him feel _at home,_ and giving that up would be... Kili tosses half a cherry tomato across the table to land almost elegantly in Fili's portion of salad, which meets with a unanimous exasperated groan from all the adults, but fortunately, Fili is responsible enough not to retaliate, and Kili's grin is too wide and innocent for the whole stunt to be anything but hilarious. Bilbo helps him remove all the tomatoes from his bowl, and hands them over to Fili, and tries to come up with a way of letting them all know that this is the happiest he's been... in a long time.

 

The feeling lasts for a good long while, all things considered. Almost the whole day. After the meal, and some necessary exploring – the boys have not been to Thorin's quarters in a very long time – he ushers the Princes to their own rooms. He doesn't even need to come up with an excuse to return to Thorin afterward, because Thrain asks to speak with him, which... could mean any number of things that Bilbo is left to figure out. Having agreed wordlessly that Thorin would like to talk to his father alone first, Bilbo has enough time to swing by the Staff building, fully expecting the usual Sunday afternoon ruckus. And indeed, Balin is there, compiling the roster for the coming week, sort of synching it up with Bombur's own schedule of all the fancy dinners and lunches that will need to be done, and Bilbo realizes that he himself is a part of this noisy, carefully orchestrated chaos of the Palace's background processes, and if this is to be his home, then he'll take it, he'll take it all and then some, thank you very much.

“Morning!” 

That's Bofur, nursing a steaming cup of coffee, hiding further away from all the commotion – and apparently also from Mirjam, who seems royally angry about something, the words that Bilbo understands making very little sense, and the ones he doesn't probably adding some curse spice. The chauffeur looks rather more haggard than Bilbo would expect, and winces when asked about it.

“Yeah, Bombur and I might have stayed up a little bit longer yesterday, which resulted in both of us sleeping in,” he exclaims, “but I will have you know this is for the first time in years. Years! But as you can imagine, Mirjam's not too stoked about it. The order for that lunch up to his quarters came really, really late, and my dear brother wasn't even out of bed by that time. Got all hell rained down upon him by his wife _and_ Deidre. Oh well. At least I got the better part of the bargain, I was supposed to drive His Majesty somewhere today, and it got canceled last-minute. Could hardly believe my luck. Wonder what's gotten into him, though.”

Bilbo's imagination is definitely spiking up, because it almost looks like Bofur winked at him.

“Good for you,” he says carefully neutrally.

“Ye-es.”

Okay, those suspiciously narrowed eyes are definitely not a coincidence.

“Erm, I... is there any coffee left?” Bilbo steers elsewhere rather clumsily, “I've got some time before... you know. Duties.”

“Mmhm,” is Bofur's enigmatic response, but he grins easily enough and points vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, “there's plenty left. Be careful not to set Mirjam off though, she's a... what would be the English translation of  _ ubzûn _ _ gilemel _ ?”

“Ah, a... oh gosh, like a 'walking minefield'?” Bilbo blabbers, “does that mean she's rigged to explode at the slightest touch?”

“Yep, explosive and dangerous. Watch your step,” Bofur snickers, stretching over the armchair, and when Bilbo returns, he's almost dozing off.

They sip their drinks quietly while Mirjam is heard scolding her subordinates rather fervently, and even Balin makes an appearance in the otherwise peaceful room, on the phone with someone who's making him visibly enraged, and by the time Bombur waddles in, pale and disheveled, Bilbo is wondering if the peace of mind he's managed to achieve over the past night has not cost everyone else theirs.

“Hope you enjoyed your lunch,” the Chef utters, “it might cost me my marriage.”

“It was – _how_ exactly does everyone and their mother know I was at that lunch?” Bilbo sputters, and the brothers exchange an amused, if tired, glance.

“You do realize it was an order for _a specific number_ of people,” Bombur notes, “it wasn't hard to connect the dots.”

“It's just a lunch, relax,” Bofur adds, “it's not like you spent the night.”

Bilbo blinks – or at least hopes his inner turmoil doesn't translate into anything more harmless then a blink.

“It was delicious,” he supplies feebly.

“Good. You're lucky Deidre was the one putting the finishing touches on it. Can't guarantee what my darling wife would have done with it, at the rate she was going.”

“You didn't exactly offer for a chipper morning sight, _nadad_ _,_ ” Bofur quips, which earns him a few groaned curses, and Bombur lolls his formidable frame in the armchair, shutting his eyes firmly when more shouting is carried on the wind from the kitchen.

“You came for the presents, I assume?” he sighs, “might want to wait until she settles down, or else you risk finding one or all of your precious bottles in shards when she tries to murder me with it.”

“Well, this has been _lovely,_ ” Bofur chuckles, “but I'm afraid work really does call now. I'll talk to you two in the evening?”

“Actually, err, I...” Bilbo starts, but before he can launch into a complicated explanation of how he's actually planning on spending the evening... elsewhere, Bombur's eyes flutter open and he notes towards Bofur: “ _ zûrâl _ _ izu hi uduzhin _ _ . _ ”

“Ask me about... what now? What woman?” Bilbo translates quickly, gaze darting from Bombur to Bofur.

“Oh, right, yes,” the chauffeur perks up, “your Miss Smythe is a very sweet lady, actually.”

“Oh?” Bilbo inclines his head, “oh, well... yes, I suppose she is. What...?”

“We got to talking yesterday at the party, and apparently her grandmother... did you know her grandmother is the Duchess of Khazad? That's some fancy people, and that's coming from someone driving the King all over town every day. Anyway, she tells me her grandmother used to know our Uncle Bifur before... you know, the revolution. And that she'd very much like to meet him.”

“Oh, Bofur, I'm... so sorry, I should have told her not to bother you, I-”

“Nonsense,” the chauffeur smiles, “she was very kind about it all. Didn't bother me at all, we simply ended up talking about our senile relatives, that's all. I'm pretty sure her grandmother would be the first person to want to see Bifur without any sort of ulterior motive. He talks about those days a lot now that he actually... talks at all, and maybe he'd enjoy having someone to talk to, you know, someone who's lived through all of that with a similar point of view, I don't know...”

Bofur exchanges a fond glance with Bombur, who nods lightly, and Bilbo senses his palms sweating a little bit. Oh, Fridda's grandmother might not have any _ulterior motive,_ but he's not so sure about Fridda herself.

“Anyway, we've yet to ask him if he'd be alright with someone else visiting,” Bofur continues, “but I wanted to ask you... well, if we can trust them. I know, I know it may sound stupid, but we've been dealing with so many people trying to lie their way into meeting with Bifur, and, I mean, you know her, so there's _that_ little piece of credibility, but still...”

“Oh, Bofur,” Bilbo sighs heavily, dragging his hand over his face, the visibly exasperated gesture taking the brothers by surprise.

“What? What, is there something wrong with her?”

“No, no, there is absolutely nothing _wrong_ with her, you are right, she _is_ a very sweet lady. But maybe you should know she's... well, she's dating Bard Ibindikhel. How's that for credibility?”

Bilbo surprises himself. Fridda really did seem worried about her grandmother when last they spoke, and maybe she really does want nothing more but to help two long-lost friends reconnect... Oh right. Here we go again with kidding himself. There's a bigger picture, somewhere in those numerous files spread across the table of a coffee shop what now feels like ages ago, and Bilbo wishes he'd paid more attention to Bard's excited theorizing and Fridda's careful ideas. All he knows now is that he refuses to drag more people into this. _His friends._ People who've come to care about him enough to throw a sodding birthday party for him, for crying out loud. He's refused Gandalf before, when he tried to... well, to _use him_ to get to Bifur, and... Oh, speaking of Gandalf, that man has not announced himself in a long time, and that's very unlike him. Bilbo feels a faint chill creeping up his spine.

“Look,” he says firmly, “this is your call to make, obviously. You've been taking good care of your Uncle so far, so just... keep on doing that. You'll all be fine, I'm sure of it.”

Bofur is gazing at him inquisitively, while Bombur's brow is rippled with worried lines, and Bilbo realizes they look a bit confused. He doesn't blame them, he barely recognizes the words coming out of his mouth himself.

“Bard Ibindikhel, huh?” Bofur says, looking at Bombur, who shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“What's he like?” the chauffeur wonders, “he's been handling this whole mess around Thrain pretty decently, hasn't he?”

“I... suppose so, yes,” Bilbo replies warily.

“You see, we've been... entertaining the idea of letting _someone_ tell Bifur's story,” Bofur supplies, “we ourselves don't know everything that's happened during the revolution, and we don't have the time to sit in the Azanulbizar Archives for hours and reconstruct everything. And we _certainly_ won't be able to withstand the pressure of all the people who want to know more much longer.”

“Do you think Ibindikhel would be willing to do it, Bilbo?” Bombur adds, and Bilbo all but groans desperately.

“I'm not... you can't expect me to...” he tries weakly.

“If I call Miss Smythe and ask her to ask Ibindikhel on our behalf, would that be alright?” Bofur wants to know, and Bilbo looks on their faces, round and honest and, above all, _hopeful,_ until finally, he concedes – not for the first time, and certainly, _certainly_ not for the last – that he's in way over his head.

“I think so,” he affirms, defeated, and they grin.

“Wonderful. Oh, this is so great,” Bofur beams, “thank you for your help.”

“Oh, I don't think this can be classified as helping,” Bilbo mutters, but smiles at them, because after all, he's a supportive friend.

They say goodbye quickly after that, and Bilbo lingers behind a little bit, prolonging his stay in the comfortable armchair as much as possible, sipping on the coffee and hoping it might set his mind at ease. He did agree to help, that much is true. But that was regarding Thrain, and anyway, the talks they've been having this past week have been largely inconclusive. And Bilbo is secretly glad of it, of course he is. Thrain loves reminiscing, talking about the past, but Bilbo never dares push him towards any particular topic, and so he usually ends up hearing about this or that mild diplomatic incident or such, and all the people the Crown has ever wronged or pardoned or argued with. He himself is urged to talk about the current world as much as possible, Thrain fascinated by anything and everything that has happened during the ten years of his coma. 

Bilbo has had the very odd pleasure of talking to one of his doctors once, and apparently it helps the man's mind stay fresh. ' _You're doing a very good thing_ ' were the words of the medical professional, if Bilbo remembers correctly, and, well, who is he to argue with miracles? Because that's what Thrain's recovery apparently is – miraculous. According to Thorin, the doctors have never seen anything like it... According to Thorin, it's all too good to be true. Bilbo doesn't need it spelled out loud – he can very well spot it in Thorin's movements, his eyes, his whole _being_ when he's around Thrain. He's allowing himself to believe that it's all real, and most of the time, it works wonders for him. But Bilbo knows that the King has spent his whole life losing things rather than keeping them, and he's used to disappointment. That it hasn't come yet regarding his father is mostly miraculous, but also disconcerting, and sometimes, Bilbo thinks he can sense Thorin's nerves wrung tight like a string, ready to snap.

_ Oh well,  _ he thinks cynically as he nears Thorin's quarters again,  _if the disappointment doesn't come in the form of Thrain, I might as well take his place. 'You're doing a very good thing'. Right. Up to the point that someone gets hurt, because of me. Oh no, wait, that has already happened. Almost. Hmm._

His increasingly distressing and grim train of thought is interrupted when the bodyguards let him in, and he happens upon Thorin pacing the length of the living room while Thrain gazes out of the window in what can only be described as very regally detached grump.

“...Hello?” Bilbo tries, and Thorin sighs, offering him a somewhat faint smile, rolling his eyes when Bilbo raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Professor!” Thrain, who seems to find some sort of satisfaction in using the title despite Bilbo's pleas to the contrary, exclaims, “didn't we talk about the benefit of fresh air just yesterday? Didn't we?”

“I... _what_ is going on?” Bilbo asks, properly confused.

“My father has _somehow_ learned that one of his old friends is alive out there, and-”

“Bifur Abkhûz,” Thrain interrupts him, “we talked about him too, remember?”

Bilbo gulps, and Thorin gazes at him more intently now.

“You're familiar with him?”

“Ah, well... Bofur shared the story with me, of course,” Bilbo supplies unsteadily.

“And he's alive!” Thrain adds cheerfully, “can you believe this?”

“Hm,” Bilbo tilts his head, his confusion still firmly in place – he seeks answers with Thorin wordlessly, but his exasperated sigh doesn't offer much in the way of explanations.

“So... what's the problem?” Bilbo dares to ask.

“My son,” Thrain shoots a very pointed look towards Thorin, who turns away sternly (Bilbo would find it all very endearing under any other circumstances), “won't let me see him. Says it's too difficult. Too dangerous. _Lukhdij_ _,_ Thorin... Oh, so sorry Professor, that means-”

“ _Don't_ translate that, _Adad,_ ” Thorin groans, “the problem is, Mister Abkhûz is not entirely himself, or so I'm given to understand. Spends his time at a very secure, very _private_ facility in the city. As I said countless times before, it's private _for a reason._ I can find you a way in there any time, _Adad,_ but you are weak yet, and besides – and I can't really stress this enough – I can't devote any time to this before the elections. If you could just wait...”

“But I can't!” Thrain replies surprisingly firmly, and even more surprisingly loudly, and for a split second, his face betrays a state much more fitting to his current situation – for the blink of an eye, no longer, he looks harried and almost frightened, and Bilbo's chest clenches when it fades and he seems to grow smaller in his wheelchair, curling up on himself.

“I can't wait,” he says, quieter now, “there's something... something I need to tell him, I can't...”

“You can't remember, yes, I know,” Thorin says very tenderly, and he steps closer, his hand resting on Thrain's shoulder after an almost unnoticeable moment of hesitation.

Bilbo wonders just how many more outbursts like this Thorin has witnessed. Bilbo himself is probably lucky when it comes down to it, lucky that he's always had the pleasure of seeing Thrain's more pleasant face. So far. The hurt is too evident in Thorin's eyes when he glances at Bilbo, but he swallows it quickly, and concentrates fully on his father, who is now frowning powerfully, probably trying to remember right on the spot what he is supposed to tell his long-lost friend.

“How about we wait,  _ Adad, _ ” Thorin offers softly and carefully, “just for a little while. Until you remember. We can go together when you do.  S _ hândab _ _ ? _ ”

It takes impossibly long, but at last, Thrain nods curtly, his hand coming to cover Thorin's, patting it shortly. They exchange a few quiet sentences in Khuzdul that Bilbo decides not to listen in on, and then Thorin straightens up, beckoning Bilbo over to talk to him in the relative privacy of the kitchen, while the old man resumes glaring out of the window as if he's trying to win a battle against the scenery.

“I have to go,” Thorin says, visibly unhappy about the ordeal, “he still wants to talk to you, though.”

“About?”

“No idea whatsoever. What did you say you usually talk about?”

“Weather,” Bilbo supplies automatically, with a small smile, and Thorin chuckles fondly.

“Right. Then perhaps that. Storm season is coming, after all. Just don't... He won't tell me how he found out about Bifur Abkhûz's situation, but he's suddenly obsessed with it. If he bothers you about that...”

“I'll try to adhere to... weather-y topics,” Bilbo nods, and Thorin smiles shortly.

“Thank you. I... I'll be back at some point in the evening, quite early actually. I've been, erm, wondering...”

“I'll stop by,” Bilbo senses successfully where that particular train of thought is heading, adding after some consideration, “who knows, I might even remember to bring a change of clothes this time.”

Thorin gapes at him somewhat dumbfounded for the longest time, but then, as if remembering himself, he grins, gaze dropping.

“That would be wonderful. I...”

“Go, go,” Bilbo nudges him, “we'll _regroup_ here in the evening.”

“Right,” Thorin laughs, and before Bilbo can react in any way, he bends to press a quick one to his cheek, which is, oddly enough, rather charming.

“His medication is scheduled by the hour, so his assistants will help you if he's any trouble...” Thorin finds it necessary to assure Bilbo as they stride back into the living room, but Thrain overhears and grunts, “those people are much more trouble than I'll ever be, _by my rotting beard._ ”, and Thorin shoots Bilbo one last meaningful look before he is joined by Dwalin and his men, and disappears.

Bilbo hovers, unsure what he should do, until a very English idea presents itself, and he hurries off to make tea, Thrain following him, refusing any and all help very vehemently.

“There is... so much I don't remember,” he says as they're waiting for the kettle to boil, as casually as ever, and Bilbo almost doesn't freeze.

“It's coming back, though, is it not?” he replies (hopefully) helpfully, “I just think it's going to take a while, that's all...”

“I don't have a while,” the old man states simply, gazing at Bilbo very calmly, as if he's daring him to disagree, “sometimes I feel like I could...  _ shath _ _ ekh-dlag _ _ .  _ What's the word?”

“Fade away,” Bilbo translates far too easily, and Thrain's only response is a content nod.

“Ah yes. That. Don't look at me like that. I shouldn't even be alive.”

“Oh, now, that's ridiculous,” Bilbo retorts firmly, quickly enough so that his voice doesn't shake.

“It's true.”

“No, it isn't,” Bilbo says, feeling a strange sort of determination, “you _are_ alive, are you not? Obviously someone... the fates... oh, I know, it sounds ridiculous, but you're here for a reason. I mean... you know. Of course you're feeling weak, and, and helpless, but you're getting so much better. The doctors call you a 'medical marvel'. Here.”

He hands Thrain his mug gingerly, trying not to falter in the slightest under the piercing look of icy blue eyes. _Bilbo Baggins, unprecedented therapy for Kings._ Hmm.

“You believe me, Professor” Thrain says quietly, choosing not to comment when Bilbo wheels him out of the kitchen back into the living room, and it's more of a statement than a question.

“About what, sir?” 

“ There's so much I don't remember,” the old man repeats, “so much. But when I learned about Bifur  A bkhûz,  I knew... I can't remember. It's him. It's Bundushar, too. They're all...  _ mùnar _ _ fat _ _ ,  _ up here.” He taps his temple.

That word means ' _salad_ ', but it also means ' _disgusting chaos_ ', and Bilbo would laugh, if it weren't so unnerving.

“Naturally,” he says, “but you've got all the time in the world to remember.”

“You mean all the time I've got left,” Thrain replies somewhat sardonically, and chuckles when Bilbo shrugs helplessly.

“Forgive me,” he continues, “I'm just worried. Thorin thinks he's got everything... under control. He'd certainly like _me_ to think so.”

“I think he's doing very well, all things considered,” Bilbo offers a bit recklessly, and Thrain's smile transforms into something on the vastly unreadable side of confusingly fond.

“Yes,” he sighs, “I see how you would think that.”

“Well,” Bilbo clears his throat, hoping to get rid of the sudden nervous lump there, “why shouldn't I?”

“The pattern is repeating,” Thrain uses a phrase Bilbo has heard from him a couple of times before, “my own father... underestimated his enemies, and Thorin is doing the same.”

“Enemies,” Bilbo parrots.

“And I can't do nothing more besides sit here and watch,” Thrain continues as if he doesn't even register Bilbo by his side, “he won't listen to me when it comes to politics. Thinks I'm _ighluzlag_ _._ Ah...”

“Outdated,” Bilbo supplies absentmindedly, before realizing what he's just said and adding hastily, “but... of course you're not. You're-”

“Will you help me?” Thrain asks him unusually directly then, and Bilbo merely stares at him for the longest time, incapable of processing his words.

“Help you,” he manages at last.

“If I could only talk to Bifur, I'm sure I could remember. I need to...”

“Hold on, hold on,” Bilbo cuts him off rather unceremoniously, “I'd... you know I'd love to help you in any way I can, but I can't just... what do you expect me to do?”

Yes, what _does_ everyone expect him to do?!

“Thorin doesn't listen to me.”

“And he listens to me?” Bilbo cries helplessly.

“Please,” Thrain says simply, “I don't have much time, I must... I have to remember, I-”

“Oh, I really wish you'd stop saying that, sir,” Bilbo exhales helplessly, “you have plenty of time, and after the elections-”

“Thorin's not going to live through the elections.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, but then his hearing catches up with the rest of his brain, and he's left gawking at Thrain, utterly incapable of processing the words.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he peeps, and Thrain chuckles dryly at his own hands, wringing them in his lap, and he looks so... vulnerable. So harmless, so weak. Bilbo's head is swarming with battling thoughts, and ideas, and emotions, and he can't discern any of them clearly.

“Nobody's dying any time soon,” he supplies lamely, “least of all your son. Or you, for that matter.”

“The pattern is repeating,” Thrain offers, and his tea swirls slowly in his mug like a tiny, all-powerful black hole.

Bilbo almost jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, and a pathetic little mewl escapes him when he sees that the screen reads ' _Blocked Number_ '.

“Take that,” Thrain waves him off.

“Oh, no, no, it's nothing, I don't even know who it is...”

_ And besides, you're talking about people dying, and what the hell happened to chatting about the weather?  _ Oh won't it just  _stop ringing,_ for crying out loud...

“Yes, hello,” Bilbo all but spits, rising from the sofa, shooting Thrain an apologetic glance, but the old man seems transfixed with his own hands again, deeply troubled lines furrowing his brow.

“Hello!” Bilbo repeats impatiently after a moment's silence, marching over the span of the room in the faint hope that it will help dispel his sudden nausea, “who is this?”

“Hello, Mister Baggins,” comes a reply at last, and Bilbo's legs almost give way under him, and he actually braces himself against the window.

“This is Smaug Bundushar,” says the entirely-too-familiar voice, the stuff of nightmares, “I think it's high time we talked.”

 

* * *

** Dictionary: **

 

_Ighluzlag_ \- Outdated, expired, out of touch...

_Lukhdij_ \- Sourpuss (or something to that effect, a sort of a fond insult)

_Muhud turgun_ \- Bless my beard

_Nadad_ \- Brother

_Shathekh-dlag_ \- Fade away, disappear

_Shândab?_ \- Alright?

_Ubzûn gilemel_ \- Walking minefield (there have been stranger phrases in the fic... right?)

_Zûrâl izu hi uduzhin_ \- Ask him about the woman

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I... made things happen. What do you mean there's only four chapters to go and I wasted this one on schmoop. What do you mean I live in denial. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, I know I enjoyed writing it, even though, to be completely honest with you, I never really planned for this lovey-dovey turn of events. But that's Thorin and Bilbo for you, I suppose. Full of surprises. You should enjoy them while they are still of the smoochin' variety [hint hint nudge nudge]. Thank you for your support, as always. We are nearing the finish line! (And it's scary. And I'm determined to stick to my desired number of chapters. Yell at me if I'm rushing things.)


	22. Chapter 22

Storm season is coming. The sky is an ominous steel grey color, heavy clouds hanging low and nearing the Palace like a bad omen. Bilbo stands by a window overlooking what he's come to think of as his home, neat walkways and trimmed bushes and shaped lawns four floors below him like a carefully constructed mosaic, like a perfectly detailed painting, and the hammering of his heart is louder and more disturbing than any thunder.

“I've got nothing to say to you,” he peeps, and Smaug Bundushar laughs shortly on the other end of the line, and it sounds more like the tearing of old paper – dry and somewhat ominous.

“While that might be the case,” he replies coolly, “I have quite a number of things I'd like to say to _you._ ”

“I don't want to hear any of them.”

A rather large part of his mind is screaming at him to _hang up, hang up right now for crying out loud, and never pick up the phone ever again,_ but he's frozen. He's not sure he's even breathing right.

“Tell me, _Professor,_ ” the man continues, “how's the family? How's the King enjoying having his father back?”

Bilbo, sensing all blood quickly drain from his face, struggles to keep upright and not slump against the window.

“You keep threatening people – it seems like that's all you're capable of,” he manages faintly, eyes glued to Thrain now, who wheels himself over to the other side of the room to look out onto the premises there, blissfully unaware of what's unfolding a couple of feet away from him. 

“You have no idea what I'm _capable of,_ ” Bundushar supplies very calmly, and Bilbo shudders – that was probably the desired effect.

“Just... tell me what you want.”

“I want you to tell me why you think the attack on the Palace happened – you know the one?”

“It was you!” Bilbo retorts harshly, “don't... don't toy with me. You wanted to... you'd found out who I – who I really was, and you wanted to get to me...”

More dry laughter.

“That's a charming twist, right out of a paperback crime novella, but do you really think anyone would waste their resources to _infiltrate the Royal Palace_ just to get to one little man?”

“Why then? What do you _want?!_ ” Bilbo cries desperately, his eyes unwittingly scanning the fastest route that would take him off the Palace premises and as far away from all this as possible.

“I want... call it a business meeting, if that makes you feel better,” Smaug says, and Bilbo can _sense_ the sly smile.

“I don't want to do any _business_ with you.”

“Alright, then let me rephrase that – come meet me, or I promise you you _will_ find out what I'm capable of. And, by proxy, the King might find out as well. Dear as he is to all of us.”

_He's playing you like a fiddle,_ some voice Bilbo didn't know he had reminds him, _emotional blackmail, you could call it._

“If I'm such a _little man,_ ” he gathers enough courage to say, “then why do _you_ of all people want to talk to me?”

_I had a birthday party yesterday and ate a lot of chocolate cake and spent the night by the King's side, and I really wish that that was all there was to my life right now. Are you telling me a bit of peace and quiet doesn't come without a price? Shocking._

“Come and see for yourself.”

“I'm _not coming anywhere._ ”

“There is one last Cabinet session before the election week held in the Palace on Wednesday, Professor,” Bundushar says casually, completely disregarding Bilbo's sharp tone (and bordering on hysteric), “myself and Mister Karkâl will be there, as will a great many other people. Neutral grounds, you might say. I really do wish to _just_ talk to you.”

“The way you _just talked to me_ the last time? Cornering me in a room and, and...”

“Do give me some credit,” Bundushar chuckles humorlessly, “the press will be present.”

“That didn't seem to bother you the last time,” Bilbo quips.

Smaug laughs, _again,_ and it is a sound that will most probably haunt Bilbo until the end of his days – remorseless and chilling to the bone.

“I'm looking forward to talking with you.”

And he's gone, the other end of the line goes silent, and it's entirely too easy to pretend that Bilbo had dreamt it – well, aside from the quite real tremor in his hands, and the feeling of what might be impending doom or a swiftly approaching cardiac arrest wrapping its ominous claws around his chest and _squeezing_ until there's barely any air left in his lungs.

He manages a very, very weak smile in Thrain's general direction, waving him off before he can ask any questions, and all but sprints into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, without any effect whatsoever. This is it – is this it? Has he upset the universe by deciding to disregard all common sense and just be selfish last night? Wildly and mindlessly, he considers a number of scenarios while glaring into the kitchen sink, from packing his bags and leaving the country right now, to chasing after Thorin and telling him everything...

He walks back into the living area, slowly and stiffly, almost shivering from a cold that doesn't have anything to do with any natural causes... and Thrain is looking right at him, as if he'd been expecting him, arms crossed over his chest, lips pursed, a perfect mirror image of his son when he's enraged.

“The pattern is repeating,” he says for what feels like the tenth time in the last hour, and Bilbo shudders.

“Y-yes, you've said that before,” he manages, wondering if Dwalin and his men outside would find it especially peculiar if he were to dash right past them now and never come back again.

“I'm not as deaf as they take me to be, you know,” Thrain continues, “did you, or did you not just speak to Smaug Bundushar on the phone?”

There is no way for him to _really_ know. Bilbo doesn't think he ever said Bundushar's name at any point during the conversation, probably mostly because he couldn't get it past his lips without cringing. So he could build his defense on Thrain hearing things, and being overly suspicious, and old, and... there is nothing of the usual fretting, slightly quirky man left in his features. He is every inch the King he never got to be now, sitting up tall and measuring Bilbo with the unwavering look he's been subject to many, many times before from Thorin. He used to be good at withstanding those... He used to be good at withstanding a great many other things, honestly. He used to be good at being _sensible,_ too.

“If I say yes, will you let me tell you why?”

And that's the end of that, then.

Thrain flinches almost imperceptibly, as if he didn't actually expect Bilbo to confirm all his suspicions, and Bilbo himself has no idea whatsoever what he's doing. No idea where this is heading, really – the only thing he's sure of is that the train he's on has now very definitely derailed, and is speeding downhill towards a horrible catastrophe, and there's no way of averting it.

“You're his spy,” the old man exhales, and Bilbo almost groans out loud. _A twist right out of a paperback crime novella indeed._

“I'm not... I _promise you_ I'm not anyone's _spy,_ ” he says desperately, “please. You must know I would never – I would never dream of, of, you know, _turning sides,_ or anything as drastic. I swear. I _was_ actually hired as a tutor. If you would just let me tell you the story...”

“My father was driven insane by people turning sides,” Thrain supplies calmly, still glaring at Bilbo – but he's not calling security just yet, or in any way indicating that Bilbo has overstayed his welcome, which must be a good sign... right?

“I am _not...”_ Bilbo gulps, then recollects himself, stating more clearly, “I am _not_ working for Smaug Bundushar. I swear on my life. The only one driven insane here is me, I guarantee you that. _Please_ just let me explain what's going on, before you... I don't know. Hand me in.”

Thrain frowns menacingly, but then he leans back in his wheelchair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“ _Fine._ Make me a cup of tea to go with it, though,” he sighs. “something tells me we might need it, both of us.”

And Bilbo gapes at him for the longest time, his mind completely blank – is this how it's supposed to go? The grand unveiling of the truth? Not with a bang, but with the whistle of a kettle? It makes him extremely uneasy, but in the end, he does as he's asked. He makes them tea, and shares his story pacing in the kitchen and stumbling over his words.

It's his first time telling it in its entirety to someone who has no idea what's going on, and he doesn't exactly do a stellar job. He is far too nervous, forgets parts and then returns to them later, and his palms are sweating and his throat is dry. Thrain sits there like a statue, his responses nothing but curt nods or _hmm_ 's, up to the point that Bilbo tells him about that rally he'd attended that blasted pep rally in Gundabad, which was where he'd seen him first, sneaking around and happening upon a room with a hospital bed...

He gets incredibly riled up when Bilbo tells him that Bundushar had been planning to do _something_ with him, and for a moment Bilbo is almost worried for his health – that's how furious he is. But then Bilbo starts talking about the attack on the Palace, and about meeting Bundushar's man in Ered Luin (which had prompted his graceless fainting), and they begin to lose track of the story, slowly but surely. By the time Bilbo mentions Gandalf's name for about the hundredth time, describing how the man had asked him to get close to Bifur Abkhûz, he himself has lost all the dots he thought he might connect by telling all of this mess in one go. And what's more, Thrain enters into one of his momentary reveries when Bilbo tells him about Bard and Fridda digging around in the Archives for god knows what information, and he begins muttering names under his breath, and dates and places, none of it making any sense, all of it setting Bilbo even more at edge.

He needs to tell Thrain how he'd never wanted to hurt anyone, how he's afraid, so very afraid, but they keep speculating, jumping to increasingly more disturbing conclusions, and Bilbo's actually quite worried it might all be taking its toll on the old man's health.

“I need to speak to Doctor Grey,” Thrain decides at last, the first sensible sentence in a long string of chaotic ones, and Bilbo, jumpy and scared and breathless, simply stares at him.

“Are you sure, I mean... Do you know him?”

“Of course I know him,” Thrain retorts, almost as if he's offended that Bilbo isn't keeping up, “he was here... for the revolution. My father had hired him... or the Queen had sent him... You will excuse me, I don't remember the details. Anyway, yes, yes... he was here. The pattern, he – he was helping to uncover everyone who'd turned against my father. In the end it was... less people than he'd thought, you see. Still enough to drive him insane.”

“I...” Bilbo peeps, but Thrain raises one hand, stern and simple, once again reminding Bilbo of Thorin – painfully so.

“The man will know what to do,” Thrain declares resolutely, “if you could just...”

“I should probably call him anyway,” Bilbo agrees feebly, “about what Bundushar just told me. I just... I don't know if we'll be able to reach him...”

But he picks up so quickly Bilbo once again adopts the suspicion that the entire universe is conspiring – whether it is for his benefit or against it, he's unable to tell. Thrain is impatient to take the phone, but Bilbo doesn't let him, instead explaining the situation, not any less frantically than before, and for his part Gandalf seems unhealthily thrilled.

“Oh, this is excellent news, Bilbo,” he exclaims, “ _excellent_ news.”

“ _How,_ Gandalf?” Bilbo whines, ignoring Thrain who keeps demanding the phone, and striding across the hardwood floor – it only does very little to calm him down, but at least he feels a little less like dissolving on spot into a useless pile of nerves.

“Well, I'm sure he'll offer _some_ insight into what's going on. Might even confess to something if he's not careful. Oh, _oh,_ I should see if I can get you a wire. That would be _priceless-_ ”

“Gandalf, no. _No._ Listen to me. I am _scared out of my wits_ here. I don't want to talk to Bundushar, _at all._ Much less wearing a wire, you can't be bloody serious. Just _please,_ I'm begging you, resolve this. Will you be here on Wednesday? You have to be here.”

“I'll be there.”

“Good. That's good. I – oh, alright, _alright._ Listen, there is someone who'd like to speak with you. It's – well, in fact it's Thorin's father. I sort of... I had to tell him everything, I... I'm sorry-”

“ _Excellent!_ ” Gandalf says, genuinely pleased, “put him on!”

And so Bilbo does, and slumps onto the sofa, clueless and losing all solid ground under his feet. He has to strain himself not to give in to the sheer panic bubbling just under the surface and threatening to win him over and make him do something _properly_ foolish, like run away right now, or get horribly drunk, or possibly both. He watches Thrain speak with Gandalf excitedly, and realizes he's not listening at all. He simply stares dumbly, incapable of anything else, really.

He's a big fan of gentle stress, the kind that keeps him from being idle for too long, but _this..._ this is fear and confusion and desperation gnawing at his nerves, and he doesn't even know how he'll last the day. He closes his eyes and makes himself think of Thorin, of last night, of the warmth and the comfort, and before it can make him feel guilty, Thrain is handing the phone back to him, and reality rushes in.

“Gandalf,” he sighs almost soundlessly.

“Chin up, Bilbo,” the man chuckles, “everything is going our way.”

“ _Your_ way, maybe.”

“Oh, come on now. I know Bundushar gave you a proper scare, but trust me, it'll be alright. I'll call Bard right after this, and we'll set something up. We'll take care of this. All I'll need from you is to be there when we need to reach you. Incidentally, the business with Bifur Abkhûz we'd talked about a while ago is resolving itself as well, since His Majesty's father just told me he'd like to meet him. Which is something we should be able to arrange. But don't concern yourself with _that._ You'll be fine, I promise.”

“What about Thorin?” Bilbo mutters weakly, feeling all energy slowly leak out of him.

“What about him?”

“At what point does he learn about all this?”

“This is all just unnecessary additional worrying for him, Bilbo. He has enough on his plate with the elections, and if we play our cards right, he'll learn of this when it is successfully over. Which will be soon.”

“But he _needs to know,_ ” Bilbo replies, his gaze finding Thrain's, who seems very calm for having learned everything he just did, “he needs to – Gandalf, I can't do this anymore. I can't lie to him anymore, I-”

“Don't worry about the King, Bilbo,” Gandalf says kindly, “trust me, my men and his security services are working together daily, and he's kept up to date about everything important. He's _fine._ ”

“But-”

“ _Relax,_ Bilbo. I'll take care of everything on my end, which is much more messy than yours, _believe me._ ”

“Why is this happening right now, Gandalf? Why to me? Why does Bundushar want to speak to _me?_ Do you want me to just sit around and pretend that everything is topsy-turvy when in fact... you know what? Forget about it. Forget everything I just said. I _will_ just sit here and let everyone else deal with this. I've had enough. Just keep me posted, alright?”

“Will do,” Gandalf agrees, all happy and chipper, “take care. I'll call you in the evening.”

“ _After_ ten o'clock please, I need to put the boys to bed,” Bilbo says lifelessly.

“Alright then. Take care!”

He resists the temptation of tossing the phone across the room, and instead drops it on the sofa, dragging both hands down his face. He suddenly has a great urge to see the Princes, delve into their homework with them, make them clean up their rooms – anything simple and menial and involving the boys being cheerfully oblivious and happy where Bilbo can't.

“What should I do?” he mewls, and it's more of a general wondering than an actual question aimed at the only other person in the room with him, but he receives an answer nonetheless.

“You need to take me to the library.”

He peers at Thrain incredulously, perhaps with a repressed underlying current of curiosity.

“Why?”

“I need... I need to take a look at some things. I need to read. And I need _you_ to bring me books.”

“I don't... I don't think that'll be that easy,” Bilbo notes helplessly, “I'm not... authorized to take you anywhere. Dwalin and his men are right outside, and even if we do manage to convince him to let you out, you'll be surrounded by security.”

_Yes, excellent, strategic planning in the middle of a personal crisis. Maybe I do still have some untapped reserves of... what? Determination? Or blind stupidity?_

“I need to read,” Thrain harrumphs stubbornly.

“I could... you could tell me the titles of the books you need and I could bring them up to you,” Bilbo offers though it pains him to even think about doing anything else than hiding away in his room until after this whole thing blows off, “what do you think?”

Thrain looks from him to the bookshelves lining the far wall of the room.

“...Yes,” he concedes slowly, “very well then.”

“Alright, good,” Bilbo says, feeling anything _but_ alright _or_ good, “tell me what you need.”

The list is messy and compiled only with great difficulties, because Thrain's memory is still missing some crucial parts. But from what Bilbo gathers, the timeline which the man wants to read up on is very limited, and he promises to do his very best to get him anything he deems important himself.

The task is surprisingly easy, and it unnerves Bilbo – he knows he's on the edge, he knows it's only a matter of time before the proverbial other shoe drops, and he hates that this is what happens in between. The waiting. The uncertainty and the speculating. The seemingly menial everyday tasks, only prolonging the false sense of normalcy... The librarians are incredibly helpful when they hear it's all on the King's father's request – the main custodian of the library is almost as old as Thrain himself, and very fond of him from what Bilbo understands. He doesn't even have to explain much – he simply stands idly on the main plateau by the leather sofas, in the middle of the vast room, and wonders why it's here of all places that he's beginning to feel an almost debilitating nostalgia.

And then he remembers – this is where he'd met the Princes for the first time, so long ago. Kili had sat... yes, right there, cross-legged on the richly decorated carpet, reading a book that had been almost bigger than him, and Fili had emerged from behind _that_ bookshelf, hands shoved in his pockets and a defiant glare in his eyes... Bilbo has spent many more hours here with both of them since then, leafing through large, heavy colorful atlases with Kili, or lecturing Fili (and the occasional maid or librarian walking in on them) about history of literature, or even playing a game of hide and seek with both of them every now and then while they waited for lunch.

He wonders if this is a feeling that will spread – wandering around the Palace and getting inconveniently overwhelmed with feelings at every corner. What if he'll... what if he'll end up completely incapable of being here, plagued by guilt and doubt? _Alright, Bilbo Baggins, that's about enough of all that. A couple of deep breaths can fix a lot. Chin up – yes, at least in that aspect, listen to Gandalf for once._

Dwalin gives him a look of peculiar interest when he appears back at Thorin's apartment, one of the librarian's assistants with him, both of them weighed down by a great amount of books, but Bilbo withstands it quite well, he thinks – it's not a look of someone whom Thrain just told everything that's been going on, and that's a small victory.

Thrain is, once again, dozing off, but his excitement knows no bounds when he snaps awake and sees what Bilbo has brought him. Bilbo brings him his glasses and makes him more tea, and watches him for a while as he delves into the first of the books (a collection of essays about the revolution apparently, and Thrain recites the names of the authors with a love that suggests that he must have known all of them). Is he the only one overreacting about all this? Because Thrain definitely seems more... eager, than, say, enraged. Or afraid. Or reacting in any other way that Bilbo would consider normal given the situation. Still, he must ask.

“Should I... do you think I should bring Thorin up to speed?” he mumbles, “or are you planning on doing that?”

Thrain doesn't react at all at first, but then he glances at Bilbo shortly.

“I will not say anything to him,” he supplies simply, “I understand that you two...?”

The question hangs in the air for far too long, heavy and laden with additional issues, even though the answer is quite simple, but before Bilbo can bring himself to it, Thrain adds, somewhat gently: “You tell him what you deem necessary, whenever you deem it necessary.”

His eyes are surprisingly kind when he looks at Bilbo again, and he seems to take a moment to scrutinize him, as if searching for something in his expression.

“Thank you... for telling me the truth,” he says at last, and Bilbo blinks quickly.

“Well, I, erm... I needed to tell _someone,_ I think. Will you be alright on your own? I need to go pick up the boys from their lessons, and...”

“Yes, I'll be fine,” Thrain smiles shortly, eyes already scanning line after line of text, “do stop by later.”

“Ah... will do,” Bilbo peeps, “and... if you need anything...”

The old man simply nods, and so Bilbo lingers for a while, grateful when Dwalin coming in and bringing with him a nurse with Thrain's medication provides the opportunity to walk away.

“What's going on here?” the Head of Security utters when Bilbo is passing him in the door, and a shiver dances up Bilbo's spine, but he suppresses it. _Don't be silly._

“Oh, he asked me to fetch him some more books to read from the library,” Bilbo explains in what he thinks is an impressively calm tone, “wanted me to wheel him down there at first, but I managed to persuade him that that would be a bit too difficult.”

He offers a very blank, clear expression to Dwalin's slightly suspicious one, and fortunately wins this round, and is released.

He doesn't have a minute of time for himself for the next couple of hours, and is glad of it. His mind wanders nevertheless as he accompanies the Princes to their rooms, and makes sure they're ready for dinner. A part of him really wants to give in, to believe Gandalf's words about handling everything, but a more prominent (or at least a more powerfully nagging) part of him is convinced he isn't capable of just sitting with his hands folded in his lap and do nothing. He stabs his dinner with his fork absentmindedly rather than eating properly, the boys' chatter nothing more than a background buzz to his overworked mind. He can't come up with a plan on his own. He can't _figure this out_ on his own. And he can't quite expect Thrain to get anywhere – he's still in a rather delicate state, and Bilbo worries that if he leaves him to his suspicions and theories for too long, he might be responsible for a considerable dent in his already fragile health.

Worries and doubts plague him even when he joins his colleagues at the cafeteria in the Staff building for the usual late-night news after having put the boys to bed – he should probably feel a bit guilty about not paying much attention, be it when he mechanically read the usual good-night story to the Princes, or now when Balin is distributing the new roster and memos, but, well, he's already harboring so much guilt about so many different issues that it's becoming a little hard to differentiate.

Bofur catches him completely lost in thought when almost everyone has left, having absolutely no idea what the news that just ended had talked about, and clutching onto his cup of cocoa (at least a tiny part of him was sensible enough to avoid anymore coffee) like a _zachranny kruh._

“You don't look so good,” the chauffeur notes cheerfully, and Bilbo snaps out of it with a bit of a shock.

“Oh, I... Hmm. No, I'm fine. Absolutely fine,” he babbles, scratching his head.

“Right. Anyway, guess what. I _dared_ call Miss Smythe today – I figured she'd be busy during the week, what with running a school and all – and she was really excited when I told her about our decision regarding our Uncle Bifur. She said she thought Ibindikhel would be _thrilled_ to tell our story. And in turn, Bifur seemed equally as thrilled when I told him about meeting Miss Smythe's grandmother. He kept asking when she was coming. I don't think I've seen him this excited about anything that wasn't soccer in a long time.”

Bilbo stares at him blankly and tries to discern if the feeling of the armchair slowly swallowing him whole has any basis in reality whatsoever.

“That's... good. I need a drink,” he says dully, “do you think there's any rum in the kitchen that I could add into this cocoa?”

“What is _going on_ with you?” Bofur tilts his head, leaning forward, and Bilbo sighs, smiling faintly – it's his only defense, but it's probably also only a matter of time before everyone starts seeing through it.

“Nothing, I'm fine, really,” he lies, “I'm... listen, what do you know about the... what is it? Cabinet meeting? The big event on Wednesday?”

“Oh that,” Bofur chuckles, “that's pretty much just a big official meeting for show. All the leaders of the political parties get one last chance to speak before the elections, and it's this really grand old tradition, basically. Takes place in the Great Hall, there's obviously the TV people there, and His Majesty concludes everything with, _yes, yet another_ speech, you might have noticed already that he has a knack for that... Anyway, it's all very nice and all, but I hear they're thinking about canceling it. Especially this year, what with the whole mess around Karkâl's party, there's talk about all the traditions being nothing more than a pretty veil to make everyone forget for one day just how many criminals the Palace will be hosting, you know.”

Bilbo chuckles, and the bitterness is entirely genuine.

“I hear Smaug Bundushar will be here?” he supplies, hopefully casually, swallowing the bile rising in his throat along with a generous gulp of his cocoa.

“Oh yeah. Proves the point, don't you think? Can't imagine His Majesty is too happy about that.”

“Hmm.”

 

But that's just it, isn't it? Whatever Bundushar wants to talk to Bilbo about, whether he means to scare him, or recruit him, or get rid of him or whatever, he'll use this opportunity in its entirety. No one will suspect foul play, and Bilbo is reminded of facing him back in the Gabil-Dum, the great building of the Ereborean Parliament, and how he'd seen the people pacing outside the window of the small room they'd 'talked' in, and the fact that they'd been completely oblivious to what was going on inside had simultaneously been the most infuriating and terrifying thing about the whole business.

But then again, for the same reason, he wouldn't actually _do_ anything, would he? There will doubtless be a great security detail there, as well as the press, and yes, even Gandalf... Perhaps they'll just... talk. Bilbo believes for about ten seconds of course, because Gandalf calls then, as promised.

“Good news, good news,” he announces joyfully, though Bilbo gets the vague sense that he's in a hurry – he hears the faint hubbub of a crowd on his end of the line, as well as some quite agitated chatter.

“I've spoken to Bard, and they actually have an interview scheduled with Bundushar for Wednesday. It's all devised very neatly. We'll both be there, and we'll keep an eye on you. Now tell me – would you be willing to wear a wire when you speak to him? We'll make sure it happens somewhere where there's a lot of people nearby. It'll be perfectly safe, and it's in his best interest not to try anything, you know. He'll be stopped immediately if he does, and he realizes that.”

“Don't you think he'll suspect a wire?” Bilbo asks the one question, of the number he's thinking about, that makes him feel the most uneasy.

“Oh, I'm sure he will. We'll conceal it. An earpiece maybe. One of those teeny tiny cameras in your tie pin. Exciting, isn't it?”

“ _Gandalf,_ ” Bilbo groans.

“You'll be perfectly safe, I give you my word.”

“Well forgive me if I don't find that very reassuring,” Bilbo moans, “is this really necessary?”

“Of course not.”

“I... huh?”

“Of course it's not necessary. We could just wait this whole thing out, see how the elections turn out. We could assume Bundushar has a far greater plan in store, something that will unfold only very slowly, and give us time to figure it all out. But tell me, Bilbo – when you shared your story with Thrain, did you let _him_ talk as well?”

“The pattern is repeating?” Bilbo notes dryly.

“Exactly. He's seen this thing happen once before. _I've_ seen this happen once before. Bundushar had been young then, and he'd had much less experience, and much less to lose.”

“He said...” Bilbo sighs, his voice faltering him a little bit, “he said that... Thorin wouldn't...”

“Yes, I know. He said the same thing to me. He seems to think that the fate that befell his father is awaiting his son as well. We'll see to it that that doesn't happen.”

“But what does it _mean?_ ” Bilbo groans, glad that he's alone in his little apartment – it offers at least a faint feeling of security, as if nothing can reach him here.

“Listen, I must go now,” Gandalf steers elsewhere, “I'll have Bard call you tomorrow with the details. I think he'll have some interesting insights. Can I count on you to hold it together until then?”

The last sentence is delivered with a hint of a joke, but Bilbo certainly won't be laughing any time soon.

“Not sure. I'll let you know when I wake up tomorrow. Existential dread is a peculiar thing to go to bed with.”

“Existential dread,” Gandalf laughs, then adds, firmly, “you'll be alright, Bilbo. Really. Your role in all this is important, but not dangerously so.”

“Good night, Gandalf,” Bilbo grunts, and hangs up before the man can reassure him even further that he'll end up sorry, and soon.

He almost doesn't go to Thorin that night. Almost finds it easier to stay in his small bed and stare at the ceiling, but in the end he succumbs to the image of Thorin's face, the smile he'll no doubt receive when he arrives, and the disappointment if he doesn't. Thorin is large and warm and soft, yet solid like a rock, and tonight, Bilbo needs his arms around him like a security blanket, as selfish as that notion is.

He's unfazed when Dwalin announces that the King is still with his father, simply trots inside, sits on the sofa for what might be hours, and thinks of how everything happens entirely too fast in Erebor. One day, he's sitting here waiting for Thorin to come to him already, and tomorrow, or the day after that, he might be facing his wrath, or his disappointment, or his sadness. Or all of that at once.

Thorin doesn't show up still, and a different kind of nervousness overcomes Bilbo – what if Thrain did indeed decide to tell him everything, and Bilbo has minutes of (relative) peace left, instead of an undefined number of days? He even ponders rushing out of there and back to his place, but before he can, a soft knock on the door announces Dwalin, who seems a bit disgruntled when he tells Bilbo: “He's had an unprecedented... call. He'll be back late, but he... asks you to stay.”

Bilbo gapes at him somewhat dumbfounded, before remembering himself and thanking him, and blushing quite fervently for added effect. He could swear Dwalin rolls his eyes before he closes the door behind himself.

A shower is the simplest course of action, and Bilbo hopes it might actually help a little bit – once he stops feeling like a bit of an intruder, he spends the longest time there, steam rising around him, the hot water dissolving his tension at least momentarily. He hopes he might find Thorin when he climbs out, but as that isn't the case, he sits on the bed, a tad clueless. He checks the memos on his tablet at least a dozen times. He revises Fili's writing assignment, for the second time that day. He fishes out the pen Thorin had given him and turns it over in his fingers, again and again. He does anything to take his mind off the increasing unease that settles sneakily like a ghost weight on the back of his neck, making his skin crawl.

He even dares take the small framed picture on the nightstand in his hands, and gaze in the face of Dís and Frerin, Thorin's siblings. They're young in it, very young, very casual, sitting side by side in tall sun-dried grass, spirals of smoke rising behind them, and Bilbo remembers how Thrain had talked about taking his children to make bonfires in the meadow where the Princess now lies buried, and bake... what was it? Apples? Dís is grinning easily, very beautiful in her flower dress and a large summer hat, long locks of dark hair cascading off her shoulders, her arm around her younger brother. Frerin is barely in his teens, Bilbo guesses, about Fili's age – he resembles the Prince in much more than that in fact, what with his unruly mane of golden hair (Bilbo wonders momentarily about genetics, but decides soon enough he'd better leave that area alone) and the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Bilbo stares at them for a long long while, preserved in their bliss and joy, and alternates between feeling painfully out of place and painfully guilty. It's useless wondering what they'd be like now, of course, but it's very easy to imagine why it's been next to impossible for Thorin to move on. As much as Bilbo doesn't want to make wild assumptions, it's quite clear that Thorin probably was the least easygoing of the three, what with his heir-to-the-throne status, and the expectations and responsibilities placed upon him. What have his friends told him about the Princess over the time? That she had been the sunshine of the court? That she had been the only one who'd known how to get Thorin to come around? And Frerin... well, no one ever speaks much about him at all, in fact, but Bilbo gets the sense that he'd been the reckless one, the loud and joyful family favorite, unburdened by what his brother had to endure...

It's all very touching, and curled up in Thorin's large bed long past midnight, Bilbo gets a bit overwhelmed by how lonely the King must have been – must still be even now, surely, every now and then. Bilbo himself is used to grand and chaotic family gatherings, and even though he hasn't exactly participated in any of those in years now, even though his relatives fill him with bitterness, more than anything else, these days, he still remembers his excitement when he was a child, meeting all his cousins and aunts and uncles... Even though the royal family has quite a number of branches, from what Bilbo has gathered over the months, he still wonders if Thorin doesn't miss that feeling Bilbo himself is so familiar with – that is knowing that no matter how detached he feels, he still has roots, still has somewhere to turn, still has people who consider him family (even though they might not particularly like him, he notes, thinking of Aunt Lobelia).

He thinks about how Thrain speaks about Thorin's childhood, remembering it easily and reminiscing with much less ache than Bilbo would expect – how strange it must be, how unfair, that Thorin's whole life is a series of incredibly unfortunate events, misery and loss. Thrain reappearing has made him believe in miracles, Bilbo has guessed as much, but something tells him you only get a very scarce amount of those per lifetime. Before he knows it, his own uneasy philosophizing lulls him to sleep, and an arm wrapping around him and bringing him close might just be a part of a very pleasant dream he doesn't deserve in the slightest.

 

He wakes up when Thorin's alarm goes off, which is of course at an ungodly hour, but aside from moving to switch the incessant beeping off, Thorin is very close and very warm, and so Bilbo doesn't complain much. The second he remembers yesterday, he doesn't want the moment to ever end, to be honest.

“Sorry I got in late,” Thorin murmurs into his hair, his arm cradling Bilbo close every bit the security blanket he'd wished for, and Bilbo dismisses the apology with an incomprehensible grumble.

Maybe if he doesn't open his eyes for a while longer, face buried into the nook of Thorin's shoulder, the world will decide to be kinder to him today.

“I'm glad you stayed though,” the King continues, and Bilbo smiles, stroking Thorin's arm where he can reach.

“Love your bed,” he explains sleepily.

“Me too. Though I get to spend sinfully little time in it.”

“Mmm, we need to remedy that.”

“Indeed.”

But it doesn't take long for all the uncertainty and agitation of yesterday to start seeping back in, and despite the warmth of the sheets and another body close to him, Bilbo is uncomfortably awake uncomfortably soon.

“Do you need to get going?” he asks, eyes fluttering open reluctantly.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

He sounds so apologetic. Bilbo scrambles up so that he can look him in the eye, smiling proving much easier than he'd thought when faced with his tousled hair and tender gaze.

“It's alright. I'll make you coffee. Or toast, even? Your kitchen appliances have gone unused for far too long.”

That entices a gentle chuckle, and they disentangle their limbs, slowly and reluctantly, and Bilbo doesn't know about Thorin, but climbing out of the bed seems like the worst, most difficult task he'll have to face today. Maybe he should wish that were true.

It turns out neither of them have too much time to waste, and so the coffee is made hastily, toasts buttered amidst buttoning up their shirts.

“I'll try to come back earlier today,” Thorin offers, deciding how to balance eating and fixing his tie.

“Don't overexert yourself,” Bilbo winks at him, stepping in closer and taking charge of the tie, “and eat your toast.”

He feels Thorin's eyes on him the whole time, and forces himself to think of things possibly a bit less gloomy than personal crises and worlds ending. That proves much easier when the tie is done and he looks up, a huff of laughter escaping him.

“Come here,” he snickers, wiping crumbs off Thorin's mustache with his thumb.

Thorin seems genuinely petrified for a split second, but then he grins.

“You saved my reputation,” he declares.

“Oh, good. Send me a check?”

“Will do.”

“Now off you go.”

Thorin holds his gaze for a moment, his look vastly unreadable, before he sighs and nods, wiping his hands clean with the nearest kitchen cloth, then smoothing down his suit and striding out, Bilbo trotting at his side.

“Oh, I would've forgotten,” he stops at the door, “my father says thank you for the books, and to stop by when you can. What was that all about?”

“Oh, um,” Bilbo gulps, concealing the nervous shudder quite well, “he was, uh... We talked yesterday, and he expressed the need to read more. Asked me to take him to the library, I told him I couldn't really do that, and so I ended up hauling about a half of it here instead.”

“Oh,” Thorin nods, then, to Bilbo's relief, smiles, “I see. That's good. Thank you.”

“No p-” Bilbo begins, but is stopped in his tracks with Thorin's chaste kiss, which is why he finishes that sentence considerably more happily, and with a small smile of his own when they part: “No problem at all.”

“I'll see you,” Thorin says softly, “give my best to the boys.”

And with that, he opens the door and is swept off by his security guards, Bilbo lingering a few steps behind the purposefully marching group, until they turn the corner and he's alone in the hallway, the first of the morning sun only just pouring in. Alright then.

A bit dazed, he goes about his duties, waking up the boys, chatting about this or that schedule adjustment with their security guards as the Princes munch on _their_ breakfast (considerably more crumbles than Thorin, Bilbo notes fondly), listening to the morning news on the radio as they all drive to town... It almost seems like just another day, and it makes Bilbo so very sad.

Fridda takes him to the side after they arrive at Fili's school, and he waves off the Prince's curious look and hurries after her even though he'd much rather drive home right that very second.

“Good news,” she exclaims the second the door to her office closes after them, and Bilbo strains himself not to dignify that with a heartfelt groan – ' _good news_ ' has come to mean ' _more trouble ahead_ ' at some point, and he feels like he's been hearing it non-stop these days.

“My Grandma and me get to see Bifur Abkhûz tomorrow,” she tells him excitedly, and he merely blinks at her.

“Really? So soon?”

“Yes! His family were really incredibly supportive and co-operative when we asked them. I didn't expect it to happen so soon either! Oh and Bard tells me the King's father wants to meet Mister Abkhûz as well? This is so exciting.”

“You _say_ exciting...” Bilbo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Bilbo, what's wrong?”

“I presume Gandalf – Doctor Grey told Bard about what's going on? Did Bard tell _you_ everything?”

“No, I-”

“Bundushar called me yesterday.”

Her eyes widen in genuine shock, and she leans forward in her large chair.

“What do you mean, _called_ you? As in...?”

“As in he picked up his phone and rang me, yes.”

“But why? What does he _want?_ ”

“Wants to _talk,_ ” Bilbo graces that last word with a particularly rich dose of sarcasm, “on that big event on Wednesday.”

“Oh god, the Cabinet meeting? What do you think he has planned?”

At least now she seems more taken aback than excited, and Bilbo appreciates that, for some reason.

“I _really_ wish I knew,” he replies, “I'm... terrified, as you can imagine. I think Gandalf wants to put a wire on me, and try and get him to _confess_ to something, or whatever they call it these days.”

“Oh, Bilbo...” her hand flies to her mouth momentarily, “this is... you poor thing. I'm so sorry.”

“Well,” he smiles bitterly, “little adventure never killed anybody, now did it?”

Her face twists in genuine compassion.

“It's just that... I'm sorry you got dragged into this. Any of this,” she offers surprisingly frankly, “you don't... you came here to be a tutor, for crying out loud. Not get tangled up in government... conspiracies and whatnot.”

“Yes, I wish they'd included ' _involvement in clandestine operations a distinct possibility_ ' in the original contract,” he says with a sort of desperate humor, “or maybe I read it wrong.”

 

The bitterness doesn't leave him for the rest of the day. Bard calls at some point around lunch, incredibly and inappropriately exhilarated about everything, and before Bilbo knows it, he's holding a sort of impromptu conference call with him _and_ Gandalf, the two doing their best to convince him to turn into a spy right out of a James Bond movie, and wear the gear that might potentially provide them with some telling material regarding Bundushar, should he let his mouth wander of course.

Bilbo agrees mostly to shut them up. He's sitting on one of the benches in the more secluded part of the park, far away from any prying eyes, and a gentle breeze ruffles the chestnut leaves above his head, composing an ironically calming symphony with the birdsong all around.

The battery on Bilbo's phone dies pretty much the second he finishes the call, having agreed to meet with Gandalf tomorrow morning for a 'debriefing', and he's grateful, welcoming the chance to be cut off from all communication for at least a moment. He watches a group of what must be some foreign diplomats being given a tour of the premises further ahead, and he thinks of what his mother would say. What she'd think about his decisions of late, if she'd scold him for his recklessness or commend him for his courage. _You're thirty-five years old, for crying out loud, perhaps you should have a better grip on what it is exactly that you want._ That sounds enough like her that Bilbo decides to let it spur him on, and he drags himself back to his duties.

That night, Thorin is very late again and has to leave even earlier in the morning, and all in all, there's far too little of him for Bilbo to bask in his presence enough to calm down at least a bit. There's too little of the boys as well, the drive to school passing by in a flash even though he wishes to prolong it as much as he can, and in the end there's nothing left for him to do but swallow the worst of his anxiety and head to where he's supposed to meet Gandalf.

He feels painfully vulnerable, leaving his tiny car behind and getting into Gandalf's big and hostile-looking one, the luxurious leather seats and darkened windows providing only so much comfort. Gandalf buzzes about how ' _everything is falling into place_ ', and how ' _this might be the closest we'll ever get to him_ ', and Bilbo clutches onto his satchel in his lap and stares ahead, his stomach informing him rather vehemently that one toast for breakfast, some coffee and some stress aren't a very healthy combination.

He almost turns on his heel and marches (runs) away when Gandalf leads him into an imposing, stern building in the business center of the city – the headquarters of the Ereborean Secret Services. He's reminded of the anxiety of his first days at Oxford as he hurries after Gandalf, but the university had consisted of much more beautiful hallways and lawns and stone arches, and much less artificially illuminated corridors and strict-looking people in uniform dark suits offering him short unreadable glances.

He almost swallows his tongue when he's led into a conference room deep in the labyrinth of the building, and meets Bard there, as well as Chief Surkaz, the menacing Police President, and a couple of his men. Bilbo sits in a chair, very stiff and very cold, as they pace around and talk about ' _security measures_ ' and ' _necessary precautions_ ', and ' _risk factors_ ', and he signs the paper Gandalf slides him (“Just a little insurance in case something goes south,” the man grins easily) in a daze. He receives instructions. Suggestions. ' _Psychological warfare is his field, not yours, so just let him speak.'_ He meets the men who will be monitoring him in the crowd. He's marginally relieved when told to leave his gun behind and not worry about that, ' _there will be much more capable people shooting for you if necessary_ '. Gandalf tries to look encouraging, while Bard scribbles into his notebook and sends about a dozen texts a minute, winking at Bilbo every now and then; and Chief Surkaz eyes them all with ill-concealed suspicion. When Bilbo dares bring up the topic of bringing Thorin up to speed, the man glares at him as if he can't believe he'd actually said that, and they all make him swear to keep everything to himself, the King has enough to worry about as it is...

Bilbo can't sleep that night. He subjects himself to a brief talk with Thrain, describing what's going to happen only very carefully – the man is interested in everything, but much like Bilbo, he's not entirely sure how to connect the dots between Bundushar and all the rest quite yet, and his extensive reading has not borne fruit just yet, and so he only wishes Bilbo all the luck in the world and asks to be informed about the outcome. And so Bilbo trails into Thorin's apartment at long last, and sits on the sofa, agitated and shivering from what might be a draft, but also might be pure old-fashioned fear, and the screen of his tablet shines far too bright, frozen on this or that news article his eyes refuse to focus on.

Thorin almost scares him out of his wits when he finally appears, and apparently it's two in the morning, and apparently Bilbo must look properly horrible, because the King falters and scrutinizes him almost warily. When he asks him what's wrong, Bilbo almost breaks, almost gives up – but in the end, offering a somewhat watery smile and accounting his sleeplessness to a cup of coffee far too late seems to appease the King. And later on, their skin still hot from the shower, fingers tangled gently in the damp curls on Bilbo's neck, Thorin manages to kiss just enough anxiety out of him so that he can fall asleep at last. But he startles awake almost before the alarm starts beeping, his head spinning, mouth dry – for a moment, he entertains a foolish idea of calling in sick on this whole shebang.

“Oh by the way,” Thorin calls from the wardrobe, both of them getting dressed reluctantly, “I'm leaving tonight.”

“Oh?” Bilbo notes, carefully controlling his voice not to betray his utter despair, “where?”

“France.”

“ _France?_ ”

“Mhm. A meeting with them, the Spanish and the Italians. Couldn't be timed worse, if you ask me. Didn't I tell you about this? I'm sorry. I'll be back on Sunday.”

“Sunday,” Bilbo exhales weakly.

“You're, err... welcome to stay here,” comes a somewhat timid offer, “Deidre is prepared to water the new plants, of course, but I thought...”

Bilbo's face scrunches in pain, and he walks into the wardrobe room, coming upon Thorin fastening his shirt sleeves and flashing him a small smile. Without a word, Bilbo steps closer, fingers trailing up his chest to take care of his tie, as has become a sort of ritual of theirs, and he bites the insides of his cheeks against the sudden onslaught of emotion.

“So that's a rain check on that dinner, then,” he says in the lightest tone he can summon, eyes glued to the soft striped pattern of the tie, and Thorin almost physically tenses up.

“Oh, I – _tashrab,_ I completely forgot, I... So much for my planning abilities. I'm _so_ sorry...”

“No, it's fine,” Bilbo manages to look him in the eye with a smile, “really. We'll... we'll do that when you get back. It's alright.”

The small window behind them provides only a hazy glow to the room, and surrounded by dark wood and the scent of Thorin's cologne, Bilbo lets himself be pulled close, and does his very best to siphon at least a portion of Thorin's solid warmth into his own stiff and aching bones.

It's not enough. Thorin is whisked off far too soon, and Bilbo has his duties, which he performs mechanically, his grins in response to the boys' cheerful attitude only very faint that morning.

The event starts with a lunch to which Bilbo obviously isn't invited – no, he has a much less pleasant task to perform. He hears the arguing long before he reaches the offices of Dwalin's security, and it's... yes, the Head of Security in a rather heated quarrel with Chief Surkaz. Bilbo does his best not to translate the strict Khuzdul.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Dwalin all but spits when he sees him, and Bilbo opens his mouth helplessly, but that's when Gandalf steps in.

“I asked Bilbo to meet me,” he supplies calmly, and Dwalin's gaze snaps to him.

“ _Explain to me_ what is going on, _right now,_ or I will have all of you escorted off the premises,” he growls.

“This is obviously a bad time...” Bilbo tries, but Gandalf steps to him, one hand on his arm.

“Not at all. We'll get out of your way,” he smiles at Dwalin politely, then utters shortly to Surkaz, “we'll talk later.”

The Chief offers a curt nod and a vague look to Bilbo, and then Gandalf steers them away, quickly and resolutely.

“What is going on?” Bilbo demands, looking back over his shoulder and catching Dwalin's suspicious gaze a second before they turn the corner, “does he...?”

“No. He knows nothing about what's going on with you,” Gandalf reassures him, “Chief Surkaz simply has a hard time justifying what so many of his people are doing here. It'll be fine, don't concern yourself in the slightest. Ah, here we are.”

Bilbo is ushered into an office just like any other, in the main cluster of the Common Wing, where the public is allowed, and he is sat down in a chair and fussed around by a couple of techs, the men who will provide security for him standing in the corner and conversing in quiet Khuzdul, while Gandalf runs everything by him for what must be the hundredth time. Bilbo tries to listen, he really really does. But his heart is hammering a thousand beats a minute, and he almost yelps when one of the techs asks him very politely to unbutton his shirt, and they stick what is an almost unnoticeable wire on him – and even though it's not visible at all under his shirt and his cardigan, it still feels like an immense weight has been added to his chest, almost as if it's physically constricting his lungs.

“You'll be alright,” Gandalf tells him before releasing him, his encouraging smile not really working at all, “we'll hear what you're saying at all times, we'll know where you are at all times. Nothing's going to happen to you. The safety word?”

“Bree,” Bilbo supplies obediently, “but Gandalf-”

“You have my thanks for doing this. If anything goes wrong, it's on my head, I promise you.”

“Well, _that's_ reassuring.”

“I know. Now off with you. It's showtime.”

 

And so Bilbo goes. Mingles with the crowd as best he can. His job is simple – let Bundushar find him. Oh joy. The important part of the whole event starts in about an hour, and Bilbo will somehow have to be done by then, because despite everything, he _does_ have some real-life duties involving the Princes. Which means he needs to survive this. Yes.

The bulk of the crowd is near the Great Hall deeper into the Common Wing as far as he's been informed, and so he heads there, valiantly, doing his very best not to peer back over his shoulder every other second to determine if his guards are still following him. He runs into Bard after having met an uncomfortable number of familiar faces, his smiles getting more and more nervous by the second, and so he's almost glad to see the man.

“Excellent, you're here,” the journalist offers somewhat conspiratorially, “listen, I've just finished with him, he's in that fancy drawing room with the piano, you know the one? Yeah. Go, go. Don't worry, he's in a surprisingly good mood. Or, wait, yeah, maybe that's all the more reason to worry. Anyway, good luck!”

And with that, he disappears, his phone already at his ear, and each step Bilbo takes towards the room he'd suggested is heavier and more difficult – he's not even sure he'll make it there. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and wishes he'd drank some more.

He sees Bundushar before the man sees him, and something in his chest constricts and stops him dead in his tracks. The man is surrounded by a lot of people, deep in discussion about what's surely something inherently evil, and Bilbo is frozen in place, incapable of doing anything but gaping, waiting for Bundushar to notice him.

“Professor Baggins.”

He yelps and his heart almost jumps out of his chest, and he sees that Mister Zundush, Bundushar's less than savory assistant, has appeared by his side. The man's cologne is far too sweet and there's far too much of it, and Bilbo's stomach sways dangerously, and he gulps.

“We're glad you could make it,” Zundush tells him, as if this whole event belongs to Smaug and Bilbo is nothing but a guest here, “now follow me, please.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, to protest perhaps, but no words come out, and Zundush merely offers an overtly cheerful smile and a nod, motioning Bilbo to follow him. And Bilbo does, against all common sense.

The man leads him away from Bundushar, away from the main mass of the crowd, and Bilbo comes to the terrifying conclusion that somehow, Zundush knows exactly where he is going. Bundushar probably acts like this whole Palace belongs to him, and the thought transforms some of Bilbo's fear into anger – which is something he should probably hold on to.

“Where are we going?” he demands in what he hopes is a firm tone, “and what do you people want with me?”

“Please, Professor,” Zundush says dryly, “don't worry so much all the time. Mister Bundushar really wishes to just speak with you. In private, of course.”

“But _why?_ ” Bilbo hisses, the tape holding the wire in place itching a little bit, as if to remind him that yes, he should definitely keep asking questions.

But Zundush ignores him, and instead stops in the middle of a hallway that Bilbo knows leads to the gallery – they're close to a part of the Palace no longer accessible to the public, and somehow, the fact only serves to feed Bilbo's resentment. That Bundushar would _dare._

“Here we are,” Zundush beams, genuinely happily, as if everything's going according to plan, pointing to a door leading to one of the drawing rooms Bilbo has never spent much time in – they're mostly used for receiving less important guests, from what he understands.

Bile rises in his throat when Zundush holds the door open for him – he manages to cast a glance into the hallway before he's led inside, and sees that it is unfortunately devoid of people, and the security guards at each end of it don't seem to be interested in them overmuch. Bilbo's own guards are there somewhere, he thinks he's caught a glimpse of them stopping by one of the large windows, and he can now only hope they'll be of some good.

The inside is, true to the best _Hurmulkezer_ tradition, all white marble and pretty antique chairs, flowers and a large mirror on one wall, and in comparison with all that, the two large hulking men in dark suits standing by the tall window are as ill-fitting as they get, and Bilbo resents them immensely for tainting all of this with their presence. They don't spare one look in his direction, only move to stand by the door as Zundush grins at him and declares: “If you could please wait here. I'll be right back with Mister Bundushar.”

Bilbo hopes he looks properly disgusted, and the slimy man only cocks an eyebrow and leaves, the security guards closing the door behind him and making it very clear that Bilbo won't be following him any time soon. He risks a look at them, but their eyes are firmly focused on the wall, and so Bilbo sighs, resigned, and slumps onto the expensive upholstery. He finds he feels strangely... hollow. For all intents and purposes, now would be the time to get properly scared, but he's simply... well, still a bit nauseous, but also pissed, furious that Bundushar is allowed to parade around the Palace like this and commandeer random rooms for executing his secret meetings and terrifying people.

He glares out of the window, a neatly trimmed hedgerow obscuring most of the garden he knows is probably filled with people... He thinks he smells roses. He thinks he'd like to see roses, at least once more in his life – which would imply getting out of here alive, and he's still not entirely sure about his chances regarding that. Wouldn't it be ironic, breathing his last breath here, probably ruining the insanely luxurious carpet in the process?

He's so lost in his utterly ridiculous thoughts that he doesn't even gasp when Bundushar marches into the room. He's wearing a dark suit and an even darker smile, which tries and fails at appearing all lenient. Bilbo would like to tell him that he doesn't have the face for that – no, fake smiles can only be pulled off by people like his sweaty assistant Zundush, simple enough and not yet so filled with evil that it seeps into their every facial expression.

“Professor Baggins,” Bundushar speaks, “it is a pleasure, _again._ ”

He extends his hand to him, but Bilbo simply looks on, gaze darting from it to Smaug, in a very clear ' _you can't in your right mind expect me to do this_ ' message. Bundushar relents at last, smirking lightly and reclining (' _retracting his claws_ ', Bilbo's mind supplies), and Bilbo lets out a shuddering sigh, squirming in his seat a little bit.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“You should ask yourself the same question,” the man replies easily, a small gesture sending the guards outside.

“I know what I want,” Bilbo retorts with surprising determination, “I'd very much like some peace from all this. From you.”

“Peace,” Bundushar repeats slowly, and it's as if he's unused to even using the word, but then he smiles, almost amused, “perhaps you should have thought of that before you took this job. Dainty Englishman tutoring the King's nephew. I imagine you never even fathomed all of this would happen to you, am I right?”

“Well, I certainly didn't think I'd be meeting people like _you,_ ” Bilbo grumbles under his breath, the man's mocking tone making him disregard the thin ice he's standing on.

“Is that so?” Bundushar says quietly, and something in his voice makes Bilbo look him in the eye.

The man scrutinizes him, inspects him, _measures_ him, and Bilbo thinks he notices a strange hint of suspicion in his gaze.

“I would think that being a _teacher,_ you'd be better at getting your point across,” Bundushar says incredibly vaguely, and Bilbo frowns, equal parts confusion and pique.

“I would think that being a politician, you'd be better at convincing me that I _want to_ get it across,” he quips, and Bundushar laughs, shortly, lifelessly.

“Oh, I'm not a politician,” he notes lightly, “do you not watch the news? They call me _enigmatic_ these days. A philanthropist, if I'm not there in time to stop them. I've even heard the term ' _kingpin_ ' being used once, and while that is flattering, it's hardly accurate.”

“' _Criminal mastermind_ ' suit you better?” Bilbo snaps, and has to strain himself quite a great deal in the very next second so that his hands don't fly to his mouth in horror at his own gall.

But Smaug simply laughs some more, and Bilbo has to give it to him, it's a good tactic – a good vague laugh hides a lot.

“It does, in fact,” he smiles broadly, leaning back in his armchair and folding his hands on his knee, “very theatrical, if, again, inaccurate. But enough name-calling. I'd very much like to progress to the actual topic of this conversation.”

“Be my guest,” Bilbo utters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, his eyes darting out of the window.

The day is beautiful, and Kili and Fili are probably at lunch right now, cheerful and loud and happy, and so, so far away... He swallows, inhales deeply, and braves returning his attention to Bundushar. Who, for his part, seems to regard him with what Bilbo wouldn't hesitate to call intrigue.

“You're remarkably good,” he says, knocking Billbo off balance a little bit, “I didn't know they bred them like you anymore. My compliments to the Queen.”

“The – the Queen,” Bilbo parrots lamely, and Bundushar's face dissolves in pure joy.

“Wonderful! Look at you. What an amazingly tailored role. The frightened feeble teacher getting all tangled up in high politics because he _just wants to help._ Oh, the King must think you're a _delight._ ”

The last word is delivered with a special dose of venom, and Bilbo blushes, gritting his teeth and doing his damnedest not to look away.

“What _the hell_ are you talking about?” he asks, and is pleased when it comes out acceptably stern.

“Oh, come on now, you can speak freely with me,” Bundushar seems to be enjoying himself immensely, “pretending like this must be so exhausting for you.”

“Pretending? Pretending about _what?_ ” Bilbo exclaims, getting properly confused.

Smaug glares at him for a second, then lets out a short sigh, as if he's disappointed in Bilbo for some reason, and leans forward, saying with exaggerated care, in mock-hushed tones: “I know who you work for.”

Bilbo's eyebrows arch so high up his forehead it almost physically hurts, and an incredulous chuckle escapes him quite unwittingly.

“Who I _work for?_ ” he repeats, Bundushar's _pleased_ smile still in place, “and who is that?”

Something a lot like thinly veiled anger flashes in Smaug's gaze for a fraction of a second, but it's gone as quickly as it came.

“No, you're right, of course,” he says, shaking his head, and Bilbo wonders if his confusion is contorting his face as much as he thinks it is – nothing becomes _any_ clearer when the man adds, “we're both professionals, after all. I'll cut to the chase, since you don't seem to be interested in playing games, and frankly, I get easily bored if my opponent doesn't engage me.”

Bilbo clears his throat, narrowing his eyes, his brain speeding a thousand miles a second trying to figure this all out.

“I presume you're familiar with The Pattern,” Bundushar offers then, and Bilbo's eyes widen, which the man seems to take as a yes.

“I thought so,” he offers a small satisfied smile, “my sources tell me that Grey has the court carefully in the dark about the whole affair? I presume that includes you – you don't have to answer that, the look of utter disappointment is enough. Don't feel bad, Professor, if there's anything Doctor Grey excels at, it's the caution with which he treats everyone, including his closest associates.”

_Utter disappointment,_ Bilbo wonders, _is that really what my look... looks like? I myself feel like I'm more in the realm of utter sodding cluelessness._

“Now, despite what you might think of me,” Bundushar continues before Bilbo can express himself in any way, “I do have the safety of this country at heart. Don't look at me like that. Have you become such a stalwart supporter of the Crown that you fail to see what all of this is about?”

“Perhaps.”

Definitely, at least the 'seeing what all of this is about' part.

“Really,” Bundushar snickers, “swayed by the family, are you? How unprofessional. No, I don't think that's it. I think you know exactly what's at stake. Which is why I'm making you this offer – The Pattern for the King's safety. And his adorable little nephews, of course.”

“Threats again,” Bilbo says, managing to conceal his shudder quite nicely, he thinks, given the circumstances.

“Oh yes,” Smaug replies plainly, “but also promises kept. I gave your people Thrain – that alone should be enough for you to believe me when I say I'm serious about this.”

_Serious about what?!,_ Bilbo wants to scream, _what are you even talking about? And what_ the hell _is The Pattern?_ He needs a drink. Or several. Maybe a good lunch. Alright, think. What do people usually say in situations like these?

“You'd be a fool to think I'd... betray him,” he supplies in a more or less steady tone, and it seems to confuse Bundushar, if momentarily.

“The King?” he notes, “or Grey? I assure you, neither of them are worth it. Soon won't be worth anything at all.”

“You're awfully crass for someone in your position,” Bilbo retorts as his brain shouts at him _what are you even saying?! Listen to yourself!_

He feels adrenaline coursing through his veins, a reckless head rush, and where did that come from exactly?

“ _My_ position,” Bundushar repeats almost carefully, “enlighten me, Professor, what position is that? Or better yet, let's talk about _your_ position. I still don't understand what Grey was thinking when he sent you to Gundabad – oh, yes, I know it was him. Or did you think that sniveling journalist Ibindikhel had me convinced _for a second_ that he'd pull this off on his own? Good lord. Kevin Kent. Such a nice guy he was.”

Bilbo gapes at him, and his mind is utterly, perfectly blank. He doesn't have _the slightest idea_ what on earth is going on, and it leaves him strangely empty. It's not unpleasant, he finds. It's just – well, empty. He feels curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he lets it rest for now, reminded of Gandalf telling him to let Bundushar talk. He just hopes the man will start making sense soon, because he's getting hungry... The quiet burst of laughter escapes him completely unwittingly, the sort of desperate chuckle of someone who's dead exhausted and even more desperately clueless.

Bundushar doesn't even twitch, but his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly – Bilbo supposes it might be his equivalent of an angry outburst, and so he wisely judges it's probably time to calm down a little bit.

“I, erm... I actually have _no idea whatsoever_ what you're talking about,” he says very politely, and Smaug rolls his eyes – there's something inherently menacing about the grimace.

“Is that so,” he comments coldly, and when Bilbo only nods, shrugging, his lip twitches as if in a barely concealed snarl, and he goes about inspecting his fingernails, continuing in that openly condescending tone, “so you're just here to drive the Princes to and from school. That you chat with the King's long-lost father _every day_ about... what? Weather?”

“Actually, yes,” Bilbo grins, and has to struggle not to laugh again – it might not be the wisest course of action, he thinks.

“Interesting. Then I presume you also have a _completely normal_ explanation for why your name pops up surprisingly often wherever Grey's involved. Why you were _right there_ during the attack.”

Bilbo reclines in his chair, his curiosity stronger than his fright – for now.

“And _how_ do you know about that? I don't remember seeing you among the armed commandos, though I'm sure that would have been a sight for sore eyes.”

“Yes, alright,” Bundushar chuckles, and something tells Bilbo he's beginning to lose his patience ever so slowly, “I know for a fact that the eldest Prince attends a school led by the granddaughter of the Duchess of Khazad, which, in our world, is a rather neat connection to you, don't you think? I'm certain the name of Laura Ibindikhel would be familiar to you even if you didn't spend your time conspiring with her son. As for the King's father, well, he's right under your nose now, isn't he? All very convenient, none of it a coincidence, I dare say.”

_The pattern is repeating._ Something is fighting for attention at the back of Bilbo's mind, but he can't get a good grip on it. Against everything that's been suggested to him, and against everything he's told himself _not to do,_ he decides to risk and see if he can help that one stray thought come to light.

“What about Bifur Abkhûz?” he asks, and a strange jolt of exhilaration dances up his spine when he notices the flash of genuine confusion in Bundushar's eyes.

The man leans forward, clearly intrigued but obviously still aiming to maintain his ominous air, and he says, quietly and with great care: “Who?”

Bilbo offers a small smile that is entirely too cheeky in the given circumstances, and Bundushar's brow furrows.

“Well,” Bilbo supplies, feeling strangely, _dangerously_ lightheaded, “being a criminal mastermind, I'd think you'd be better at staying up to speed.”

He can see Bundushar's knuckles whitening as his grip on the armrests tightens, and he thinks _well now's probably the time to be afraid._ But his mouth decides to play a different game.

“You can't make me tell you anything,” he says, and his voice shaking slightly with the effort to hold it together kind of fits the situation, he figures, “in fact, I think you'll find that I do not take kindly to people wasting my time.”

And alright, that is a line he distinctly remembers Thorin saying at one point or another, and oh my god, he really is in a paperback crime novella now.

“Do you, or do you not have access to The Pattern?” Bundushar demands very slowly, then, as if remembering something funny, “you do realize that this country's fate depends on this.”

Bilbo swallows.

“I... realize that _you_ think it does,” he supplies, and almost scrunches his face in utter despair at his lack of eloquence, but then something occurs to him.

“Do you even know what The Pattern _is?_ ” he says, and takes care to add just a tinge of resentful amusement – that proves easier than it seems.

It would appear he's succeeded (at _something_ ), because Bundushar lets his face betray him for a moment, a cluelessness Bilbo is very familiar with himself shining through.

“I get the feeling that you're not going to correct me if I'm wrong,” the man says disdainfully, and Bilbo opts for his sincerest ' _oh please_ ' face.

“Very well then,” Smaug sighs, “then at least answer me one question.”

“No.”

“I'll answer one of yours.”

“Truthfully?”

“Depends on what you're willing to accept as truth.”

Bilbo is hungry, properly now. He feels himself sweating around that damned tape holding the teeny tiny microphone in place, and he's afraid it might peel off if he moves too much. He can only hope whoever's on the other end is receiving everything. He can only hope it's worth the feeling of the ground crumbling under his feet, the feeling of staring down a massive cliff, knowing he's going to be pushed off and being utterly incapable of doing anything about it.

“Ask me your question.”

“Would you rather disappear from the country without a trace, or have everyone know what happened to you, in... _excruciating_ detail?”

Bilbo mouth probably forms a perfect 'o', but he feels himself go perfectly numb in the process, his sense dulled by the roar of blood rushing to his head. Is this it? What was that sodding safety word again? He's drawing a blank so vast he thinks he might never string his thoughts back together again. The world shrinks to Bundushar's face in front of him, those thin lips pursed in a humorless smile, those lizard-like eyes glaring, waiting... At first he thinks it's just his heart beating out a highly irregular rhythm, but it turns out it's a knock on the door, and Mister Zundush peers in, breaking the spell.

“Out!” Bundushar orders, but his assistant replies in quick Khuzdul, something about the meeting coming up, and... yes, ' _K_ _arkâl_ _wants to speak with you_ ', all the while Bundushar's and Bilbo's gazes remain interlocked. Bilbo gasps when the man stands up, smoothly and quickly.

“Well, this has been... fruitful,” he declares, “but I'm afraid duty calls.”

_That's it?!_ Bilbo wants to yell, but his vocal cords are refusing to co-operate right now.

“What do you say I answer that last question for you, Professor?” Bundushar adds, “sometime soon, I promise.”

And with that he's gone. He's gone. Doesn't look at Bilbo twice, but Zundush does, casts him a short glance before they leave the room, and Bilbo's mouth hangs agape. He's not so sure his legs will carry him if he stands up. Something sharp rises in his throat, and he realizes it will be tears if he's not careful, so he bites his lip, staring at his hands folded in his lap.

 

What happens next is all one big blur. He only ever snaps out of his daze when the two men that had been tasked with keeping him safe barge into the room – apparently Bilbo has not said anything for several minutes, and everyone thought something had happened to him. They escort him back to the room where they'd set him up with the wire, and they take it off him again and he's asked to wait. Just wait. By the time Gandalf arrives, Bilbo is all but brimming with questions, and anger, and residual adrenaline.

“He thinks I'm your _spy,_ Gandalf?” is the first thing he spits at the man, who has the gall to accompany his sigh with a smile.

“Perhaps. You did great for a fake spy, _and_ for a real one, though.”

“Oh, don't give me th- can I sue you for this?” Bilbo sputters, “or should I sue _the Queen?_ What are you _thinking,_ Gandalf? What have you dragged me into?!”

“Nothing you couldn't handle, obviously.”

“But I didn't _handle_ anything, for crying out loud! He kept speaking in enigmas, and babbling something about 'The Pattern', and... Do you know what that is? I'm so _confused,_ Gandalf. Oh, and did I forget to mention my life was threatened, _again?_ This time quite clearly, I should think!”

“Yes, I heard.”

The man is _still smiling._

“And?!” Bilbo cries, wondering in a split second if his angry shouting can be heard outside the door. Probably yes.

“And we couldn't have wished for a better outcome.”

“Gandalf, I _swear to god..._ ”

“Now, hold on. Hear me out. Do you want to know what The Pattern is?”

“No! Well... yes. But I don't _need_ to know!”

“Well, I do. And I think I might need your help in finding out. Just – no, don't look at me like that. All I need you to do is to listen. Bundushar mentioned a couple of names, you know them all. Laura Ibindikhel, Bard's late mother. The Duchess of Khazad, Fridda's grandmother. And last but not least, the King's own father, Thrain. I think you might have tipped him off about Bifur Abkhûz, though?”

They're alone in the small sitting room now, and Bilbo wants nothing more but to get out of there, get some fresh air, some distance, and some food. He thinks he's still shaking.

“What do you mean, _tipped off?_ ” he asks desperately.

“Well, he's going to try and find out who Abkhûz is now, that's for sure. Won't take him long to make the connections. Which is why we must act fast.”

“ _We?_ ” Bilbo exhales.

“There's work to do, Bilbo. I've got to make calls, make sure that Bundushar is under strict supervision. We made a mistake once, cutting him some slack if you will in the whole Thrain business... Anyway, you needn't concern yourself with that. All you need to know that these people – Laura Ibindikhel, the Duchess, Thrain and Bifur – had been up to something before the revolution all those years ago. The Pattern? Who knows. We need to find out. Bard will get in touch with you, we'll-”

“No.”

It actually takes Gandalf a while to register Bilbo's quiet refusal, and when he finally does, he only casts him a short glance as if he's saying ' _oh come now, don't be silly_ ', as if he's scolding a child. Bilbo has had about enough, though.

“Gandalf, I am _fed up,_ ” he declares, “I've done what you asked of me. My head is... is _spinning_ with all this new information I _did not_ need to know, and I... I don't want to be a part of this. I'm done. There's something I must do. Something I should have done a long, long time ago.”

He didn't actually expect Gandalf to let him walk out of the room, but somehow, he succeeds, and his brisk march quickly turns into a trot, and soon he's all but sprinting through the corridors, searching for someone, anyone-

“Balin!” he exclaims when he sees the familiar mane of white hair atop a staircase, “Balin, where's the King? Where's Thorin?”

The Chief of Staff sizes him up and down, as if he can't quite believe Bilbo would dare behave so disgracefully in the Palace hallways.

“The Cabinet session just ended. He's leaving – I believe he told you this?”

“He did, he did, but _please_ I need to speak to him before he leaves. It's urgent.”

“Anything you have to say, you can say to me and I'll relay it to him.”

“No, no, I can't, not this, I-”

“Bilbo _what_ is going on with you?” Balin wants to know, “you look positively haunted!”

“Yes, yes, that is exactly what I am. Haunted. Now will you please, _please_ let me see the King?”

“I'd love to, but I'm afraid I really can't do that.”

Bilbo feels like kicking things. And possibly throwing things out of windows. And screaming at things, yes, that sounds like the right thing to do. His mind is racing and stumbling and bubbling, his heart leaping in his chest like an overzealous rabbit, and some part of him is trying to tell him that if he doesn't sit down soon, he might explode.

“ _Whatever it is,_ ” Balin tells him surprisingly kindly, his hand on Bilbo's shoulder steadying him at least a little bit, “it can wait for the weekend, can it not?”

Bilbo gapes at him desperately, wishes for some sort of spell or a gesture that would encompass the whole mess going on right now so that he wouldn't have to spend an hour explaining it... He _so_ wants to get all of this off his chest, _right now._ He _needs_ to tell Thorin. He must tell Thorin...

“The pattern,” he thinks, and it takes him a couple of seconds to catch up with the fact that he'd said it out loud as well, “oh, _the pattern._ The pattern is repeating.”

It's not an epiphany – more like a teeny tiny light bulb switching on somewhere in the darker corners of his mind, illuminating a path that _might_ lead towards an epiphany. He realizes Balin is still staring at him – he must think Bilbo has gone utterly insane. Well, he wouldn't argue with that right now.

“I'm sorry,” he babbles, “god, I'm... Give the King my best, will you? Yes, alright. Are you going with him? Oh, good. I mean... anyway. I really have to go now. Sorry I bothered you, I-”

He leaves the end of that sentence hanging, and leaves the very obviously flabbergasted Balin behind. Oh this is _so_ not what he's signed up for. He _might_ end up suing the Queen. He might end up _dead,_ for all he knows. _What do you say I answer that last question for you?_ Oh yes, he'll definitely end up dead. But not before...

“The Pattern,” he mumbles under his breath, strolling swiftly through the hallways, avoiding people skillfully, “The Pattern, _The Pattern._ Why does that sound familiar?”

He punches it into his phone, sending what is probably the vaguest text in the history of vague texts to Bard, and then he's outside, and his hands _are_ shaking, he finds. And his cheeks are burning, and it's surprisingly windy, the sky steel grey once again, _storm season is coming, after all,_ and he'll have to go pick up the boys from school very very soon, and he _still_ hasn't eaten, and...

He dismisses most of his colleagues when he enters the Staff building, and his lungs almost give out when he enters the cafeteria, and Bofur and Bombur are both there, and startle when they see him.

“Bilbo!” the chauffeur exclaims, “you're late for lunch! I think there's some leftovers in the kitchen, right Bombur?”

“Oh yeah, it's pasta day today,” the chef grins, but Bilbo must look truly horrible, because he adds, “oi... are you alright?”

And Bilbo is really not. _Storm season is coming. The pattern is repeating. I'm going insane._ He sinks into one of the armchairs, his legs giving out at long last and welcoming the rest, and it takes him a couple of deep breaths before he can concentrate on his friends again, both of them staring at him in quite the shock by then.

“Bilbo, _what_ is going on?”

He hears that question for what might be the hundredth time that day, and most of his mind screams ' _Everything!_ ' in response. He takes a deep breath, and looks at them in what might be exhilaration or utter despair. He knows there's only one way of finding out for sure.

“There's something I need to tell you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did a thing. As you may have noticed, this chapter is very plot-heavy - so plot-heavy in fact that after some very helpful discussion with my peeps on tumblr, I decided it wouldn't be a horrible thing to rework it in more detail and split it into two. So much for adhering to a chapter count, eh. But hey, the next chapter should come around pretty quickly as a result. The ending of this one might be a bit chaotic I grant you, but I'm working hard on tying all the loose ends, I promise :') Tell me what you think!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nonsense. You're just chronically unlucky when it comes to government conspiracies, or something."

Bilbo doesn't mind being subject to staring – he has spent most of his life standing in front of a full classroom, after all. But it has made him acutely aware of the subtle differences in continual stares – there's attentive staring, when people are actually paying attention to what you're saying. Then there's mandatory staring, which is the bored students flicking their gaze his way every now and then to meet the lowest bar of the attention quota. There's the nervous not-staring of those who know they might be called out for a short oral exam, or the fidgety careful staring of those who are actually looking at the screens of their phones under the table... Bilbo knows them all, knows the nuances.

What he isn't familiar with is horrified staring. Bofur and Bombur never take their eyes off him as he tells them his story, save for a couple of quick glances at each other, probably to confirm that the other one is still there, still hearing the same things. They're trying to figure out if the words Bilbo is saying can actually be true. _Maybe he's joking._ They're trying to connect the dots, and they don't ask very many questions, and Bilbo is incredibly uneasy, and even more incredibly sorry.

“So, uh, in conclusion,” he says after the bulk of the story has been more or less described, “I am... I'm not a spy, despite what you might think – and, as it turns out, despite what Bundushar thinks. I did come here to be a tutor, nothing more, but apparently Gandalf has had something else in mind for me for... god knows how long. And I've been – you must understand I'm not very good at lying. Keeping all of this to myself has been an ordeal, and I only held out this long because, as you can see, I don't have a very good sense of what's going on myself, and I keep forgetting things, and I'm... I'm well and truly clueless most of the time.”

He almost asks ' _Any questions?_ ', but stops himself in time. They keep staring, and he'd welcome it if either of them had anything to say at all, but it seems he won't be afforded that courtesy.

“I really felt like I needed to tell you, now that... well, what with everything that's going on. I'm sorry I wasn't straight with you before when you asked me about Fridda and Ibindikhel, but the truth is, I don't really know... I can't really tell where this is heading. The big picture is too big for me to see. I'm sorry.”

Almost in unison, the brothers lean back in their chairs, sighing raggedly. Bombur opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it after the look he exchanges with Bofur. The chauffeur rubs his forehead and glares at Bilbo some more.

“I can understand trying to help the King,” he says slowly, lifelessly, “but I have to say, it seems like you've... what do you people call it? Like you've bitten off more than you can chew?”

“That's right! That is exactly what I did,” Bilbo exclaims, “and now I'm... I'm smack in the middle of this mess, and Gandalf _still_ wants my help, and he'd promised to protect me, but Bundushar threatened my life for about the third time since I've met him, and-”

“Bilbo,” Bofur chuckles, and Bombur adds, “relax.”

“You know, I'm told to relax _a lot,_ but I don't really see how I can. Both Bundushar _and_ the King's father have been talking about how Thorin – how His Majesty won't live through the elections or something, and everybody expects me to just _go with it,_ but how the hell can I?”

“Look, this is bigger than you,” Bofur says calmly, “bigger than the lot of us, I dare say. You're right, you're not a spy. And I think it would be best if you left it to the real ones to handle everything.”

“Yes, but...”

“Do you want a drink?” Bombur asks helpfully, “no, hold on, you're still driving to the city to pick up the boys, aren't you?”

“You two... _how_ is everyone in Erebor so bloody _laid back_ about everything?” Bilbo cries, “this is ridiculous!”

“We're not laid back about _everything,_ ” Bofur smiles, “but we know when to keep a clear head about things.”

“Something you've yet to master,” Bombur snickers.

“Oh, _come on,_ ” Bilbo moans, slumping in his armchair, “you're telling me you're not even a little bit worried? What about your Uncle? When I mentioned his name to Bundushar, he seemed more than intrigued. Actually, he seemed like he hadn't heard about him before, which is not a very good sign, if I'm not mistaken. You might want to-”

“Uncle Bifur is fine,” Bofur says firmly.

“Alright, yes, _for now,_ but-”

“Bilbo, he's _fine,_ ” the chauffeur repeats more sternly, then as if warring with himself, “he's... the facility he's in has him listed under a false name. We've taken every possible precaution against this sort of stuff happening.”

Bilbo frowns, but at his inquisitive look, Bofur merely cocks an eyebrow, and Bombur crosses his arms over his chest.

“Wait, so you... expected something like this would eventually happen?” Bilbo asks carefully, and then it occurs to him, “did you... do you know... something? About what your Uncle was up to before the revolution? Because if you do, then...”

“Then what?” Bombur cuts him off, kindly but curtly, “we should have done something about it? Should have started spinning crazy theories just like your Doctor Grey has been doing all this time?”

“All that we care about is Bifur's happiness, Bilbo,” Bofur adds quietly, “he doesn't need much to be happy. Even though he's started talking again, he's still nothing but a... well, he's not in very good shape, I'll grant you that, and he never will be again. Our duty is to keep him away from anything that might be in any way stressful to him.”

“But you... you wanted Ibindikhel to tell his story,” Bilbo counters feebly, “and Fridda tells me you agreed to let her grandmother meet him?”

“Yes, that's happening today.”

“ _Still?_ Even after everything I just told you?”

“Look,” Bofur says almost angrily, “seeing the Duchess is the first thing he's asked for that isn't a soccer match or a glass of warm milk. We're excited he's making a recovery – to an extent – and _trust me,_ we'll both be there to make sure he's not under any stress. What you told us is... insubstantial.”

“Insubstantial,” Bilbo repeats weakly.

“That's right.”

“But he might know something about-”

“Yes, he might know something about a lot of things, but thinking about them is exactly the kind of stress we want him to avoid. We're fine with him catching up with old friends. We're _not_ fine with him reliving the Azanulbizar revolution, _or_ the Gundabad tragedy. And trust _me_ when I say that we'll be sure to distinguish between those.”

Bilbo simply stares at them – he knows Bofur is more of a quiet type when it comes to confrontations, but that doesn't mean he's any less disconcerting. Bilbo has never heard him speaks so seriously and humorlessly, and he thinks it'll only be adding to the pile of things to keep him up at night.

“I'm...” he tries.

“Sorry? Yes, we know.”

Silence falls over them, settling on their shoulders like a lead weight, and personally, Bilbo hopes he might shrink enough so that he'd fall through in between the seams of the upholstery, away from the real world for good. Without a word, Bofur fishes out his phone and dials someone, and Bombur, whose looks have been much kinder, mouths ' _Tea?_ ' to Bilbo, who nods desperately. He watches the chef march towards the kitchen, and wonders if this is how it'll go with Thorin. Thorin...

Bilbo was so sure he needed to tell him, only a moment ago. He was so sure it was the right thing to do. Long overdue. When he comes back on the weekend, will Bilbo have settled everything, or will he have spent the days hiding in his closet?

His heart skips _several_ beats when he hears Bofur greet the person he's calling.

“ _ Ai,  _ Dwalin,  _ uh _ _ în _ _ . _ ”

Bilbo's mouth hangs open, but Bofur merely waves him off, and continues speaking in quick muttered Khuzdul Bilbo doesn't quite manage to translate the entirety of. There's talk of _protection,_ and _safety,_ and... oh yes, _we need to talk,_ all the while Bofur's and Bilbo's gazes remain interlocked. 

“Did you...?” Bilbo lets the question hang after the chauffeur finishes his call, and Bofur frowns at him.

“Dwalin is the one who helped us set up the... special conditions for Bifur's stay at that facility. He knows the Head of Security there. I simply asked him if he could negotiate some sort of... heightened alertness. Obviously, he had questions.”

“Obviously,” Bilbo peeps.

“I told him we'd talk when him and His Majesty return.”

“Right.”

“Look, I have no idea what's going on here,” Bofur sighs, as if he _should,_ “but I don't want this whole... this mess getting anywhere near Bifur.”

“Thrain wants to see him too,” Bilbo blurts out.

“Yeah. Yes, I know. I can't exactly refuse it, but I _can_ oversee it,” Bofur replies.

“Alright.”

Silence reigns again.

“Bofur, I-”

“Don't worry about it, Bilbo.”

“How can I not – how can I _not worry about it?_ I feel like all of this is my fault.”

“Nonsense. You're just chronically unlucky when it comes to government conspiracies, or something.”

“Tell me about it.”

They laugh together this time, if a bit tentatively, but the ghost claws clasping around Bilbo's chest and constricting slowly are still there, not going away.

“I wonder if the King will see it the same way,” he mutters feebly, and there is a hint of compassion then in his friend's eyes.

“Has no one really told him yet?” Bofur wonders.

“No. Everybody seems to think he has enough to worry about with the elections, which is... well, ridiculous, don't you think?”

“True, though,” Bofur shrugs, then, when he sees Bilbo's face, “I'm sure he'll... well, he will _try_ to understand. You know, since...”

“Hmm,” Bilbo blushes, and is grateful for the interruption when Bombur arrives with the tea, but Bofur doesn't seem to want to let this one go.

“We're wondering how His Majesty will react when he learns that... well, all of it,” he gestures to _all of_ Bilbo.

“Oh,” Bombur raises an eyebrow, “hmm.”

“I don't – I don't think he takes kindly to being withheld information from,” Bilbo sighs, “I mean... if nothing else, I'd known about his father before we... err, well, long before he did. And while the attack on the Palace was... probably not because of me, I still feel guilty about it. I feel guilty about a lot of things.”

They have nothing but somewhat compassionate gazes to offer, and Bilbo decides it would be asking a lot, expecting any sort of advice. 

“I'll, uh... I'll be off, then,” he declares unsteadily, “I... thanks for listening to me. I'm probably going to have to tell Gandalf I told you – should I? I don't even know anymore...”

“You know what, let's keep this between us for the time being,” Bofur offers, looking to his brother, who simply shrugs, then nods.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo smiles weakly, “alright. Thank you. I – I suppose that won't last long, either. I'm expecting I have until the King returns, and then I will _have to_ start answering some questions, to people much less forgiving than you two.”

“You're making it sound like you're waiting for your own execution,” Bombur chuckles, and Bilbo joins him, but his face probably twists in a grimace miles away from amused.

He wishes he didn't think like that – in terms of _doom,_ and _paying for his sins,_ and such. Wishes he did have more of an Ereborean in him, and didn't worry so much. Perhaps he _is_ overreacting. He does feel marginally better, having confided in his friends (who are still his friends, he hopes). The story is beginning to take some sort of shape in his head now, the details falling into place – they still make little sense, mind you, and he realizes how ridiculous it all sounds, but at least he knows he remembers the majority of it, from his first drive to Gundabad (a mental note about _lying to Thorin for the first time, telling him he was traveling with relatives_ ), to the meeting of Karkâl's party; from running into Bundushar's assistant during the Peace celebrations, to running into Bundushar himself a bit later... All of that interspersed with the information Gandalf and Bard had been feeding him tidbits of.

Questions arise, ones that Bilbo must have had before, but deemed unimportant, or perhaps unanswerable – why did Gandalf tell him about Thorin's father so early in the first place? Why did he not contradict Bilbo when he thought the attack on the Palace had happened because of him? Oh, and didn't Bundushar say something about Bilbo's name popping up all over the place? Perhaps he should concentrate on that – on figuring out what Gandalf's intentions with him have been all this time, and how long he's had them.

By the time Bard calls, Bilbo is beginning to get more angry and less anxious, and the fact that he's in the middle of a traffic jam on his way to the boys' schools doesn't really improve the situation.

“The Pattern?” the journalist asks simply, and Bilbo groans.

“Yeah, yes. Find out what you can about it – isn't that what you people do?” he retorts, doing his best to resist the temptation to honk at the car in front of him.

“Usually, but... what is it? How did the meeting with Bundushar go?”

“Oh, Gandalf didn't tell you? It went swell, yes. Bundushar is of the firm belief that I'm a spy, how wonderful is that?”

“I'm guessing not very,” Bard chuckles.

“Not. Very,” Bilbo hisses, “yes, you could say that. Look, I'm done here, alright? The Pattern is something Bundushar kept talking about. ' _Do you know what the Pattern is_ ', and ' _The Pattern in exchange for the King_ ', menacing b-movie stuff like that. Gandalf doesn't even know what it is, if you can believe that. Just... I don't know, do your thing. I don't want to have anything to do with this.”

“The Pattern,” Bard muses, “hmm. You know, it sounds vaguely familiar. I'll see what I can dig up – maybe the Archives will be helpful. I'll keep you posted.”

“Don't,” Bilbo groans, “don't keep me posted. I don't want to know.”

“Right,” Bard replies, and Bilbo can imagine the grin on his face far too well.

“I'm serious,” he grumbles.

“Of course, yes, I know. Anyway, Fridda and her grandmother are meeting Bifur Abkhûz today, and I hear the King's father has expressed his interest as well?”

“Yeah, he has,” Bilbo grunts, the busiest highway ahead moving at a snail's pace, “he also keeps talking about how _the pattern is repeating,_ so I'm thinking there might be some connection there... You know what, you figure that out. I've done enough. _Don't_ keep me posted.”

“Alright, Bilbo. Thank you. We'll speak soon.”

“I sincerely hope not.” 

If he ever does sue anyone for anything, it'll be turning bitter and jaded – he's always been the type to shrug things off rather easily, to move on and don't let anything get to him, but that was before. He sincerely hopes nothing will ever top this emotional roller-coaster. Maybe he should write a book – the list of the ones inspired by his stay in Erebor is growing longer seemingly by the minute. He'd call this one _What Not To Do When Offered The Chance To Turn Your Life Around,_ or something. Yes, yes, he'll earn millions and travel around the world giving speeches on how to avoid ruining oneself by not recognizing in time that you're out of your depth. The fair country of Erebor will sue him for divulging sensitive information, and he will in turn sue it for making him an emotional wreck. Sounds like a plan.

It's the Princes – they make everything better. He picks up Kili first, and the boy doesn't sit still for one second, describing in fervent detail some sort of squabble he had with some classmates, and moving onto a poem he'd learned that day, fluently transitioning into the monologues he's supposed to learn for his play. Before Bilbo knows it, he's laughing with him, promising that yes, they will ask Thorin if Kili can go flying kites with the rest of the school next week. 

The end of September brings about the storm season everyone's been talking about in full – powerful winds and the occasional shower almost daily, though it's still rather warm. Bilbo is reminded, strongly and almost painfully, of spending this season outside with his mother when he was little, riding bikes or tending to the garden, or, yes, flying kites in the backyard... Kili's eyes are gleaming, hair tousled, as he bobs up and down in his seat, and Bilbo reminds him absentmindedly to correct his tie, and thinks about cloud-gazing and collecting autumn leaves that his mother would press in between the heaviest books she could find, and stick them onto Bilbo's window later. He decides he'll have to do that for the boys as well, and suddenly, he has something weeks ahead to look forward to, and it's not really a pleasant feeling – no, he's instead afraid he won't be there when the leaves of Erebor's trees start gaining in color, for whatever reason.

It starts raining by the time they drive across the city to Fili's school, and so Bilbo leaves Kili in the car under the supervision of his bodyguard, and trots across the front yard inside the building. But Fili isn't there in the huddle of his classmates either. Bilbo asks the first familiar face, which would be the Prince's friend Ori, and is pointed a bit nervously towards the Principal's office. His 'What happened?' isn't graced with an answer.

He hurries upstairs, and sees Tom, Fili's guard, standing in front of the door to Fridda's office. Bilbo only needs raise an eyebrow, and the tall man sighs.

“He got into a fight at lunch,” he explains, cocking his head towards the office.

“Are you serious? Why?”

“Best if he tells you that.”

Bilbo frowns and knocks on the door – Fridda's face is stern when she opens it for him, but transforms the second she recognizes him.

“Oh, Bilbo! It's a good thing you're here. Please, come in.”

“What on earth happened?” Bilbo wonders, and she invites him in without a word, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

Fili sits with his shoulders squared, hands shoved into his pockets, pouting and scowling when he sees Bilbo – next to him is a boy about twice his size, the strong jaw and narrow eyes reminding Bilbo of...

“Bilbo, this is Bolg Karkâl,” Fridda introduces him, “he transferred to our school at the beginning of this year, into Fili's class.”

“Oh, um,” Bilbo manages, “it's very nice to meet you.”

_ Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse. _

Fili scoffs, and the kid – Karkâl's son? Nephew? - simply glares. 

“So, erm... What happened here?” Bilbo asks, hoping that it's not too evident that he's checking Fili over for bruises.

“Fili?” Fridda turns to the Prince, “why don't you explain?”

“No thanks,” the boy retorts with a defiance Bilbo hasn't witnessed in a long time, turning away.

“Very well then,” Fridda says strictly, “I'll tell him myself. The boys got into an argument at lunch today. From what I understand, Bolg had some insults he thought he should share with everyone, and Fili didn't quite agree. Only they decided to settle it with fists instead of words.”

“What insults – Fili, what could he possibly say to you that you felt the need to start a fight?” Bilbo asks, and the Prince stares at him, wounded, while the other boy snorts.

“I didn't start it,” is the only thing Fili feels like sharing, “he shoved me first.”

“ A _ hyrunâl _ _ ! _ ” Bolg hisses.

“I'm not lying!” Fili exclaims, “Bilbo, he came up to me in the line for lunch and started talking about how the monarchy is bad, and about how his _stupid_ father was gonna win the elections and then he'd move into the Palace and we'd have to _go_ _furukh_ _un_ _du_ _khur_ _!_ ”

Bilbo gasps lightly, the last phrase something he's heard before, and not in very nice consequences. He exchanges a glance with Fridda, because _really? Thirteen-year-olds fighting about politics?_ She sighs lightly.

“Bolg, we are done here,” she says to the boy firmly, “go, or you'll miss your bus. I _will_ be calling your parents.”

“ _ M' _ _ anmâd _ _ , _ ” he utters, gathering his backpack.

“Watch your language!”

“Sorry, Ma'am,” he says surprisingly politely, but then as he's passing Fili, he scowls at him evilly, and the boy jerks forward, held in place only by Bilbo's hand on his shoulder. When the door closes behind the kid, Fridda sits down in her large chair, exhaling raggedly.

“Bilbo, you should know they both got a notice for this. Nothing serious, but there _were_ some broken plates.”

“Oh _Fili,_ ” Bilbo groans, and the Prince shrugs.

“He smacked the tray with all my food out of my hand,” he supplies coolly, “so I repaid the favor.”

“Well, that's just _wonderful_.”

“They both promised me it won't happen again,” Fridda continues, “and if it does, well, I'll have no choice but to punish _both of them_ accordingly.”

“But _he's_ the bully,” Fili protests.

“Engaging him doesn't help solve anything,” Bilbo supplies gently, and the Prince stares at him as if he can't quite believe he's serious.

“So what, I should just stand there and _not_ defend myself?” he asks so earnestly Bilbo is a bit taken aback.

“Go wait outside with Tom,” he orders the boy, “we'll talk about this at home. Go.”

The Prince lets out a deep, exasperated sigh, and slinks off.

“Goodbye, Miss Smythe. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you, Fili. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She shakes her head the second the door shuts behind the Prince, and Bilbo sits down heavily.

“What on earth...?” he wonders, and she rolls her eyes.

“Honestly, we've had problems with that kid since day one. He's smart, but _rude._ Does Fili not complain about him? They pick on each other _all the time._ It doesn't help that they're in the same class.”

“Fili has... no,” Bilbo peeps, “this is the first time I'm hearing anything.”

“Hmm, strange,” she inclines her head, “anyway, keep an eye on him. There hasn't been enough studying for his results to get worse, but... you know. I'd hate for that to happen to him. Talk to him. And I'll... talk to Azog Karkâl. You can imagine my joy.”

“This is the worst coincidence yet, and that's coming from me,” Bilbo grunts.

“I know. I'll do my best to contain this. At the rate he's going, Bolg will get himself expelled by the end of this year. They tell me this is his fifth school in the past six years.”

“Yes, I wonder why,” Bilbo quips, “anyway, thank you. I'll talk to Fili.”

“Good. And Bilbo... How did it go today? You're a bit pale.”

“Oh, is that all?” he chuckles bitterly, “because I feel like I might be coming down with something. An extreme case of stress-induced flu, perhaps.”

“Take care of yourself,” she orders him.

“I'll do my best,” he smiles somberly, and is about to say some more, but her phone rings then.

“Oh, it's Bard!”

“He'll have some interesting news, no doubt,” Bilbo utters, “take it. I'll talk to you later!”

And with that, he steers out of her office – he has no desire to see her react to learning about the new additions to the whole mess. Fili sits curled up on a bench nearby, Tom casting Bilbo a short inquisitive look, which he dismisses with a head shake. The Prince follows him into the car obediently, but wordlessly, and slumps in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring out of the window and ignoring Kili's eagerness.

Though he speculates with the younger Prince about kite building and such all the way home, Bilbo keeps checking on Fili in the rear-view mirror. Has he really been so wrapped up in his own issues that he forgot to notice the tell-tale signs of the boy being subject to bullying? The idea makes him nauseous. But no, Bilbo always takes the time to ask the Princes how their day went, and he would recognize if anything went wrong... wouldn't he? Well, either way, he now knows and has the chance to quell it before it becomes a real problem.

He lets his worries for Fili outweigh what seemed like a series of unfortunate, insurmountable problems just this morning, and spends the rest of the day with the boys. Fili has the afternoon off while Kili attends his piano lesson, and so Bilbo lingers in his room, sitting cross-legged on the carpet and fiddling with his schedule on his tablet while the boy glares into his computer screen. Bilbo just prays Gandalf or Bard or anyone don't choose this very moment to call him. He's yet to go talk to Thrain, and see how Bofur and Bombur are doing... 

Later. Resolutely, he reaches into his pocket and mutes his phone. He gives Fili enough space – the boy fidgets in his chair, struggling with his homework, and Bilbo knows it's only a matter of time before he starts talking.

Soon enough, he lets out an exasperated groan and comes sit next to Bilbo on the carpet, his English grammar book on his knees. Together, they worry about tenses for a while, and it's obvious that Fili is distracted still – he snaps angrily a couple of times and has a hard time paying attention at all, really. The rapping of rain is now a consistent hum, and the sky outside is a steely grey, suggesting that the storm is here to stay, and that tomorrow won't be very warm.

“You know what,” Bilbo says after Fili has almost chewed his ballpoint pen into pulp, “we're getting nowhere like this. Look at the weather. That's no weather for studying. What do you say we sneak into the kitchens and make ourselves a cup of cocoa?”

Fili frowns at him, but then sighs, entirely too heavily.

“Fine,” he mutters.

“Alright. Come on! Take the textbook with.”

“Ugh, must I?”

“Everything is easier with cocoa, trust me,” Bilbo holds onto his positivity as firmly as possible, “who knows, maybe we'll happen upon Deidre, and she'll let us steal from her secret stash of marshmallows.”

“She has that?” Fili asks, scrambling to his feet after Bilbo.

“You'd be surprised what that woman hides in her pantry. Let's go.”

The Palace is very quiet – everybody's still hard at work, and they only encounter a couple of maids and such, and fortunately no one who would question Bilbo letting the Prince out of his room during the time reserved for studying. But then again – well, it's been some time, and Bilbo is the one everybody trusts when it comes to deciding what's best for the boys. Something tiny and unpleasant clenches in his chest at that realization, and he decides that he too will probably benefit from a cup of hot cocoa after all.

Deidre is nowhere to be seen when they enter the small kitchen reserved for the staff, and so Bilbo seats Fili on the wobbly chair by the window and goes about preparing the beverage, while the Prince rests his head on his arms on the table and stares out of the window, raindrops connecting into little rivers pouring down it.

“You know,” Bilbo says to him over his shoulder, “when I was about your age, there was a kid in my class, Timmy Brandybuck. He kept stealing my snacks. It's a wonder I even survived seventh grade, to be completely honest with you. I was even shorter back then, a really scrawny kid, _huge_ glasses... You can imagine I wasn't exactly the popular one.”

No response. The boy merely squirms a little, exhaling deeply and raggedly. Bilbo smiles to himself.

“I didn't really know what to do,” he continues casually, stirring the heating milk slowly and carefully, “I didn't want to tell my Mum, because I didn't want her to know she was making snacks for some scumbag kid instead of me. And so I endured it, naturally. Until-”

“What about your Dad?” Fili mutters.

“What – what about him?” Bilbo wonders, turning to him.

“Bolg keeps saying that his Dad taught him how to fight – you know, beat people up. Didn't your Dad know how to do that?”

Bilbo laughs, and that takes the Prince by surprise – at long last, he looks at him, if scowling a bit.

“My Dad was a historian,” Bilbo explains, “he was into old books and model ships and such. Definitely not the kind of person to beat people up, trust me. Besides,” he adds after a moment's consideration, “he'd been dead for a couple of years when that kid started being mean to me.”

Fili gapes at him, sitting up straighter a bit.

“Your Dad died too?” he asks, almost as if he's scared to know the truth.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies simply, “when I was ten. Didn't have much time to teach me how to fend for myself, that's for sure. What he left with me for his passion for literature. Did I never tell you this?”

The Prince shakes his head.

“Oh well,” Bilbo offers a fond smile, turning back to the counter to finish their cocoa, “now you know. You know what, though? That kid, Timmy, had lost his father too – I found that out after some time. His Dad had been a soldier, or something. Anyway, point is, we suddenly had something in common, and one day, I had my Mum make extra sandwiches for me, and came up to him, even though I was terrified out of my wits, to be honest, and gave him some willingly. We got to talking. Never really became friends or anything, but he never bothered me again.”

Fili merely glares at him as Bilbo gives him his steaming cup.

“Look, I get what you're saying,” he grumbles, “but I don't want to play all nice with Bolg. He doesn't deserve it. He keeps insulting my family, and he's just so... _zurmbund_ _._ What's the word?”

“Cocky,” Bilbo supplies absentmindedly, “stuck-up.”

“Yeah, that. Thinks since his Dad owns Moria and is in politics, he can have it all. I hate him. I don't want to go _sharing my sandwiches_ with him.”

“I get that,” Bilbo sits down across the table from him, “I really do. I'm not saying it's wrong to defend yourself. And I'm certainly not saying you should play nice with him if he keeps being so mean to you. Just... You know what, you're better than him. Think of it that way. He doesn't know better than to insult you, and pick fights with you, and you're above all that.”

“I'm not,” Fili mutters, blowing on his cocoa, “I want to fight him. Punch his stupid face, that's all he deserves anyway-”

“Okay, _alright,_ ” Bilbo cuts him off sternly, “settle down. Did you know the kid keeps transferring from school to school? Probably because he hasn't yet learned that _not_ picking fights is the better way to go. Do _you_ want to transfer to another school? Or would you rather have peace at the one you're at?”

“Peace,” Fili scoffs, sipping on his drink and peering at Bilbo.

“Yes, peace. Bolg doesn't deserve to be at such an amazing school, I say. Next time he insults you, or tries to hurt you or anything, just swallow it and walk away. As hard as that sounds. Report him to the teachers. Or even Miss Smythe. Just make sure he doesn't get away with this sort of behavior. He'll either calm down, or he won't and will get punished accordingly. Just _for crying out loud_ don't go smashing plates full of food on the ground, please?”

Fili chuckles.

“Not even if it's lentil-porridge with eggs?”

“Oh god, is that what you had for lunch today?” Bilbo exclaims in exaggerated horror, “then no, sorry, that's completely fine. If it's lentils and eggs, you're forgiven. Though try not wasting it. We used to have these little flower vases on the tables in our school, and we would stuff all the disgusting food in there...”

“Eww!” Fili cries, but bursts into laughter, and Bilbo grins broadly.

They both take a proper long gulp of their cocoa, and Fili seems infinitely more at ease afterward.

“Just promise you'll tell me whenever Bolg is mean to you again, alright?” Bilbo says, and Fili sighs and nods.

“He's lying though, right?” he notes quietly after a while, “I mean, it's a sure thing that Uncle Dain will win the elections, isn't it?”

Bilbo almost fails to conceal his pained grimace. He wonders if _Uncle Dain_ is prepared for whatever is about to unfold.

“More or less,” he concedes, “nothing is ever certain in politics, as far as I know. But don't you worry about that. Concentrate on school, that's what matters.”

“Yeah, but I kind of have to worry about that,” Fili counters, “I'll be taking that politics course with Thorin soon, remember?”

“Oh, right, of course.”

Thorin brought it up not so long ago – obviously Fili needs to advance in his preparations for the duties awaiting him in the future, and getting a good overview of the current political situation is just the start. Almost mindlessly, Bilbo wonders if he himself will be a topic of conversation one day. _That one Englishman who got tangled up in things he didn't understand, and unwittingly made a right mess of things just before the elections that one time..._ He takes a very long, very thorough gulp of his cocoa, hoping it might calm him down a little bit.

“Alright then,” he declares much more firmly than he's felt in a long time, tapping his finger on Fili's textbook, “let's take another look at this.”

If there is a better way to forget one's troubles than explaining the intricacies of present perfect, he hasn't discovered it yet.

 

The brief peaceful interlude is over before he can savor it properly, though. After putting the boys to bed, he realizes he will have to decide who to face first – Bofur and Bombur at the cafeteria, who will be in god-knows-what mood, or Thrain, who will demand to be filled in on everything that has happened today. He decides for the former, hoping that if he sticks around there long enough, the King's father might fall asleep before he gets to him. He feels only a little guilty thinking like that, and perhaps that is an achievement.

But then again, he should have really known better than to expect everything would go seamlessly. Before he even reaches the Staff building, he receives a text from both Bard and Gandalf, along the similar lines of 'We need to talk as soon as possible', and he almost turns right around and goes to mope in his room.

But fortunately, the cafeteria is packed full of people – this or that no doubt incredibly important soccer match is just about to start – and so even though he happens upon both the Abkhûz brothers, they don't really get the chance to talk until the crowd disperses, and Bilbo is silently grateful for that, of course.

He curls up in an armchair a little way away from the loud and cheerful company, and watches the tiny colorful men chase a ball around a field absentmindedly while peeling the cover off his beer bottle. He's become quite the beer enthusiast during his stay in Erebor, and he doesn't know what that says about him.

He's half asleep by the time the game ends, warm and cozy and about ready to go to bed and forget about the dreadful day, but Bofur sits down next to him when the people start scattering away to _their_ respective beds, and he looks almost... fidgety. Very unlike Bilbo has ever seen him.

“So,” he declares, leading some sort of short non-verbal conversation with Bombur across the room, probably motioning him to come over as soon as he's able, “Uncle Bifur met the Duchess of Khazad today.”

“Oh, right,” Bilbo sighs rather unenthusiastically, “how did it go?”

Bofur measures him wordlessly for a while, as if he can't quite figure out how to describe it, and despite everything he's promised himself, Bilbo feels a tiny tinge of curiosity.

“It was... weird,” the chauffeur decides at last, “Bifur isn't very talkative, naturally, but he... you should have seen him. Lit up like an opera chandelier when he recognized the Duchess.”

“...An opera chandelier,” Bilbo mentions the one thing that sticks with him.

“Yes, you know, ah... got excited. What do you call it?”

“Lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Oh, really? That doesn't make much sense.”

Makes more sense than _opera chandeliers..._ Anyway, continue.”

“Right, yes. So, yes, they talked. _A lot._ He still has some issues stringing proper sentences together, as you might imagine, but the Duchess was really patient with him, and yes, they just... seemed to hit it off. I don't know. It was so surreal to watch.”

“Well, that's grand,” Bilbo offers what he hopes is a nice smile.

“Hmm, yes,” Bofur nods noncommittally, and it still seems like he's contemplating something.

“What is it?” Bilbo leans forward, and his friend's eyes narrow, as if he's fighting some sort of tedious inner battle.

“Well, the Duchess mentioned that Thrain was alive,” he says at last, “you see, we've been keeping him away from the news, and he's not very interested in them anyway, so he didn't know, but... Yes. Well. That was when he got _properly_ excited.”

“Oh god,” Bilbo groans, though he doesn't really know why, and rubs his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Bofur doesn't seem any less troubled than Bilbo, “his blood pressure spiked, for crying out loud. The Duchess and him got _so_ united in their hate for Bundushar, it was like a little pep rally in there. You should have heard the theories they kept spinning.”

“Anything about The Pattern?” Bilbo asks though he doesn't really want to know the answer, and uses the term with a healthy dose of irony.

“Nah. Though the Duchess said she would fetch some files from the Archives. Apparently they're going to spend the afternoons _putting it all back together._ Her words, not mine. I didn't mention anything of what you said to me, by the way – don't worry.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo sighs, sliding his hands into the sleeves of his cardigan against the sudden cold he feels, “I don't think matters would have gotten much worse if you did. I appreciate it, though. Thanks.”

“Mhm. They _did_ both express the wish to meet with Thrain, though. Several times. Miss Smythe thought it would be... interesting. Said Ibindikhel could use it for his article about Bifur, you know, like a touching reunion kind of thing.”

“Amazing,” Bilbo sighs, anything but amazed.

“Look, I don't know if we'll... uncover any conspiracies or anything, but... well, I'd like to try,” Bofur says earnestly, “you know. Might be interesting. Certainly would be good for Bifur – he seemed healthier... more alive, every second that the Duchess was there. It was grand.”

Bilbo gapes at him wordlessly for the longest time – even now, he feels guilty. Even in this, even though it has nothing to do with him at all, he feels like he's screwing everything up, or at least is about to, and soon...

“Wait,” he says, finally deciphering Bofur's lingering gaze, “what do you want from me?”

His friend shifts in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest almost nervously, and Bilbo wonders if it would be terribly rude to just run out of the room, right now.

“Well,” Bofur starts slowly, “I can't exactly... march up to His Majesty and ask him to let my Uncle see his father. So I thought... Well, I mean if it wouldn't be much trouble... Could you ask for me? I know you've a lot on your plate, and I know the King's busy, but you know, maybe after the elections...”

“After the elections,” Bilbo parrots faintly, and can't stop thinking _what if there isn't an after the elections. What if I'm not here. What if..._

“Right,” he declares, surprising himself most of all, “I'll see what I can do. Of course. There's no harm in asking, I suppose. I'm actually going to see Thrain today – I'm sure he will be as excited as your Uncle was.”

“Oh, Bilbo, thank you,” Bofur smiles widely, “thank you so much.”

“Don't mention it,” Bilbo nods, then, after some consideration, “I mean _really_ don't mention it. There's still quite a bunch of people who know nothing of what's going on, and...”

“No, yes, of course, I understand. Your secret is safe with me,” Bofur grins, and Bilbo can't quite conceal the grimace that is anything but amused – mostly desperate, in fact.

 

He heads off soon after that, trotting across the backyard swiftly as the rain still hasn't gone away, but taking the longest possible route to the fourth floor once he's inside, stalling his visit to Thrain for as long as possible.

There is surprisingly little security upstairs, and it actually takes him a moment to realize it's because Thorin is gone, and Dwalin with him. Still, the guards simply point him in the direction of the King's apartment when he asks after Thrain, and don't seem to pay him much attention after that. It makes him feel a bit odd, having this much free access, to be honest.

Thrain's wheelchair is in its usual place by the window, and Bilbo hopes that the man in it, small and frail under a heavy blanket, might be asleep. But he stirs the second the floorboards creak under Bilbo's step, and he is, sadly, very excited to see him. Bilbo makes them tea even though it's almost midnight again, and shares his account of his meeting with Bundushar as calmly as he can manage. Thrain simply listens and watches him, icy blue eyes wary and always so shockingly piercing, and he keeps muttering something under his breath, his lips moving without a sound – Bilbo figures it might be for the best that he doesn't know what they are.

Somehow, he manages to convince the man to just wait for now, wait for when Thorin gets back to meet his old friends – he'd much rather go out first thing tomorrow, obviously, but they can't have that, now can they. Soon, an assistant comes to fetch Thrain to return him to his quarters, to which he protests vehemently, but goes anyway, leaving Bilbo alone in the large apartment.

He stands in the middle of it, feeling smaller and smaller. He finishes the tea. Washes the teapots. Opens the fridge, stares at its sparse contents for what might be thirty seconds or ten minutes, then shuts it again. Trails back into the living area, realizes the air is much colder than he'd thought. Folds Thrain's blanket on the sofa, sits down next to it.

Thinks about the future. It was only upon coming here to Erebor that he really learned how to think about having one. There was a time when he dared think about spending it by Thorin's side, dared speculate what that would entitle – dared believe he'd be able to handle it. He thinks about the Princes growing up, and knows he wants to be there to witness it, but... it's as if the outlines of what he'd once thought his life might plausibly shape out to be are slowly dissolving, edges blurring and colors unrecognizable anymore. When he got this job, it didn't take him long to understand that it would turn his life around. But somehow, that had seemed like a permanent thing – like he would stay in Erebor forever, enjoying the exuberant salary and the pleasant company, the wonders of the country and its people... Grow old here. 

Now, he can't even say with any sort of certainty what the next day will bring. _Afraid_ doesn't really describe the strange numbness he feels. There are flickers of emotion every now and then, when he's determined to fight for whatever it is that he's built here, thinks he might have what it takes. But at the end of the day, it still feels like a large portion of what happens to him is controlled by someone else, decided upon behind his back and without his supervision, and he _hates that._ He should have at least _some_ say in the matter, should he not?

He realizes he's been staring rather intensely at the raindrops traveling down the large windows for god knows how long only when the door opens. He turns to it almost hopefully, but it's just Deidre.

“Bilbo,” she notes without a hint of surprise.

“Ah... hi. Hello. What are you doing here so late?” Bilbo asks, not finding within him enough strength to even get up off the sofa.

“Came to water the plants, see how the contents of the fridge are doing, throw the really moldy stuff out,” she supplies casually, “you?”

“Oh, you know,” he gestures vaguely, as if it's somehow supposed to explain and encompass his confused feelings, “just sitting around.”

“Of course. Are you going to be staying here until he gets back?” she asks on her way to the kitchen, “I can restock the fridge for you if you want. You could take lunch here with the boys on Saturday, or something. I know I'd appreciate not having to come here in the middle of the night just to water a bunch of plants.”

“I... could stay here,” Bilbo replies slowly, getting up and following her without really knowing why, “I suppose. That's a good idea about the boys. They seemed pretty excited the last time they were here. We could watch a movie here – that big TV has gone unused for far too long, I say.”

“That's true,” she nods, then, opening the fridge, “well, you should have enough here for a quick breakfast tomorrow. Oh, wait, you take that with the Princes, don't you.”

“Yeah, yes, I do.”

“Hmm. Well, never mind, the eggs will last a while longer, as will the milk. I'll stop by here in the afternoon tomorrow – just let me know via someone if you figure out something, anything you'd want, alright?”

“Alright, thank you,” Bilbo smiles obediently.

He watches her tend to the small flowerpots on the windowsill, then follows her absentmindedly as she limps slowly to Thorin's bedroom to water the plant there – wonders if he should be the one doing that. Since he was so excited when he got the idea and asked Deidre to pick out a couple of them for Thorin's place what he knows is only a couple of weeks ago, but seems like a lifetime. _This place needs a bit more life,_ is what he'd said, he thinks. _Even now that you're here?_ Thorin had responded.

_ Especially now that I'm here. _

Well. If he's done one good thing recently, it's introducing plants into a  monarch 's life. He  wonders if he'll be able to use that to his benefit whenever his sins are counted at last.

Deidre finishes her chores and comes to stand by Bilbo's side by the window. He smiles at her, if a bit faintly, and regrets it the next second, because of course she's excellent at figuring out that something's wrong. She's like a bloodhound for bad moods.

“Go to bed early,” she orders, which is her way of saying _you look tired,_ “now that there's nothing here to keep you up.”

He sputters and almost starts protesting, but soon finds he lacks the energy for even that.

“I'll try,” he agrees sheepishly.

“Good,” she hums, still measuring him as if she's waiting for him to crack.

“I'm fine,” he says, and realizes just how weary and unconvincing it sounds.

“I didn't ask.”

“You were... _looking,_ ” he grumbles, and she chuckles softly.

“Well, sorry for that. You seem a bit... frail lately, that's all.”

“Frail,” he repeats, and wonders if there is a universe in which the word is enough to describe his current state.

“Yes. Just make sure you don't let... all of this blow your crumbles away.”

He opens his mouth to counter her, but then...

“Blow my crumbles away?” he asks, amused, “is that like opera chandeliers?”

“Like what?” she frowns at him.

“You Ereboreans and your strange sayings,” he grins, “you know, you'd do best not to translate them into English word by word. I feel obliged to report that they seldom make sense.”

Her brow furrows, and Bilbo knows she can still see his worries and tension under the thin veil of niceties, but fortunately, she decides not to comment on it for now.

“I'll keep that in mind,” she says instead, “good night.”

He wishes her the same and watches her until the door shuts behind her quietly. An almost unpleasantly eerie silence seeps back into the large room, and he contemplates if it is a good idea, to stay here overnight. In the end, the distance from here to the shower seems much easier to cross than the one from here to his room one floor below. He doesn't imagine he'll ever stop feeling like a little bit of an intruder here, but as usual, the hot water helps with the anxieties. Somewhat. 

Certainly wakes him up enough so that he's incapable of falling asleep for at least the next thirty minutes. And so he sits in the bed that is entirely too large for one man and flicks through his diary absentmindedly in the dim golden glow of the lamp.

The silly idea comes to him when he realizes he's been tapping the pen Thorin had given him on his lips for god knows how long, and staring at the surprisingly blank page reserved for next week, unable to figure out why that is... Thorin isn't here, and they've become so used to synching up their schedules together, that's why. The King always has a comment or two to make about Bilbo's hectic scribbles, unintelligible to all but him – why not use the tablet only? And Bilbo would explain to him over and over again that he likes to have something physical and heavy and _real_ to carry with him and to look at... 

_ Some things are better written in hand, you know. Correction, everything is better written in hand. _

_ If by better you mean more tedious... _

_ I don't! I mean better. _

_ Really. Imagine writing a book in hand. _

_ Alright, I am imagining it. Sounds wonderful. _

_ But the waste of paper! And... ink! And the damage to your wrist – god, I haven't written anything in hand in... decades, probably. _

_ Yes, well, that's because people actually need to be able to  _ read  _what you write. No one peeks into my diary, on the other hand. Well, except you._

_ Yes, except me... What  _ is this  _word?_

_ Milkshakes. _

_ Ah. And this one? _

_ Showing – would you  _ stop it? 

_ Sorry, sorry. _

_ What about handwritten letters? That's rather nice, wouldn't you say? _

_ If you say so. _

_ Oh, come on. It's romantic. _

_ I don't think the dozens of diplomats I write to every week would consider my handwriting  _ romantic,  _I can tell you as much._

And so Bilbo writes. At least three of his diary pages from the back part reserved for notes fall victim to this, because he can't decide if he should start with  _Dear Thorin,_ or just  _Thorin,_ or  _Your Majesty..._ _Your bed is too big,_ is the first sentence he's satisfied with enough to continue. In the middle of it, he remembers that yes, despite what he keeps saying, his handwriting really  _is_ unintelligible, and so he does his best to clean it up. After writing  _'The plants are doing fine, don't let them die when I'm not here'_ he stops for a while. This is by far the silliest idea he's had yet, but somehow it brings about a heavy onset of melancholy. When he's done, he folds the paper neatly, and spends a good ten minutes wondering where to stash it. So that Thorin doesn't find it for a good long while. He's not sure why that's important.

He opens the drawer of the end table, but no, it would be too exposed there. His silly short letter consisting of a couple of sentences that probably don't make much sense. He  shakes his head and weighs it down with the lamp to stay in place overnight, promising himself he'll find a good place for it in the morning, and manages to go to sleep, somehow... By the time his alarm wakes him up, he's promptly forgotten all about it, of course.

 

The next day greets him with the sun tentatively climbing up over the horizon, and even from so high up, he can see the remnants of last night's rain, wet patches on the walkways and puddles on the courtyard... As the boys and him leave for school, he finds he was not mistaken in his assumptions – though they sky is now cloudless as if swept clean, the air is much more chilly, and incredibly fresh.

The ride to both the Princes' schools is fortunately uneventful, and Bilbo finds his mind is pleasantly devoid of worries. He makes Fili promise him to behave and take care of himself, and then he's on his way back to the Palace, and it really does seem like his day might shape up to be surprisingly nice given the circumstances.

What little work he has, he takes to the cafeteria before lunch, enjoying the ever-present quiet murmur and hurry of everyone else working much harder than he is. He even exchanges a couple of words in Khuzdul with Mirjam while he's making coffee. It all feels very nice. Too nice? Definitely too nice.

He's just about to take his first sip from his steaming mug when his tablet dings lightly – a new e-mail. He lets the coffee warm him up and opens the message with a few elegant swipes. He doesn't recognize the address,  but opens it nevertheless...

He doesn't realize what he's looking at at first. The message contains nothing but a couple of photographs, and Bilbo sees... himself, behind the steering wheel of his little red car, and Kili climbing out of it, his bag slung over his shoulder, while his bodyguard Bert is already out, standing by... The next photo, the Prince greeting his friends and the tall man standing nearby... The next, almost the same situation, but with Fili. One from later that day, Bilbo and the eldest Prince walking side by side  _from_ the school to the car, Fili frowning after his unpleasant encounter in the Principal's office, a wary, worried look on Bilbo's face...

Bilbo freezes, setting  his mug aside very carefully. Shouldn't his... shouldn't his hands be shaking by now, or something? He flicks back and forth through the photos. Just  six of them, just Bilbo with the Princes, just...  _being._ His mind is completely blank, he realizes. He doesn't know... doesn't know what to think of this. A threat? Obviously he's being followed? Are the Princes' lives in danger?

He gasps in shock when someone across the room bursts into laughter, his head snapping up, his finger moving swiftly to switch the screen of the tablet off, but he soon realizes nobody is paying any attention to him whatsoever. Which... is also surreal. He scrutinizes the people in the room for a while, then switches the tablet back on, ever so carefully. With his nervous predispositions, his heart should be beating a thousand beats a minute right about now... His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out, and when he sees the new message from a  _Number Blocked,_ he realizes a part of him has been expecting that. 

_ The Pattern is repeating. _

The bloody letters are actually capitalized. His thumb hovers over the screen of his phone, and he doesn't feel fear. No, something else is beginning to twist his gut right about now. Anger. Which is new, but certainly not unwelcome. He dials Gandalf's number before he can even think about it properly, and only then does it occur to him that complaining loudly in the middle of a room full of people might not be the best idea.

He marches outside rather resolutely, ignoring the chill he is decidedly _not_ dressed for, and makes his way to the part of the gardens that will hopefully be more or less deserted...

“Bilbo! I'm glad you're calling.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Bilbo retorts, “Bundushar... or someone, but I mean something tells me it was him – sent me a couple of photos just now, from when I was taking the Princes to and from school yesterday.”

“Are you serious?”

“ _Yes,_ I am serious. I don't... what does that _mean,_ Gandalf?! Is he threatening me? It _has been_ a sort of a recurring theme between the two of us, don't you think? I'm not enjoying this one bit anymore.”

“Understandably,” Gandalf says slowly, warily, “this is... unexpected, to be honest.”

“Oh, is it?” Bilbo retorts, “he _does_ still think I'm some sort of international spy, or something – it's not like you came up to him and corrected him in his amusing little misconception, am I right?”

The other end of the line goes silent for a moment.

“I'll figure this out, Bilbo,” Gandalf says at long last, “don't worry.”

“Oh, I'm not worried. Not worried at all. In fact, I'm _pissed,_ Gandalf,” Bilbo hisses, fine white gravel crunching under the soles of his shoes as he marches in no discernible direction, “this has been going on for far too long. I deserve to be rid of this man – _the whole country_ deserves to be rid of this man. Tell me you know how to make that happen!”

Gandalf actually chuckles.

“I have some ideas, yes.”

“Good. Put them to use. Make them happen.”

“I will... Yes. I think I will. Remind me, when is it that you drive to pick up the Princes?”

“What – why?”

“I'd like to keep an eye on you. I'll send my men to accompany you – a completely inconspicuous car, nothing to worry about. Just to be safe.”

“I, ah... alright,” Bilbo sighs, “I usually leave around half past two.”

“Half past two. Good, good. You won't even notice they're there, I promise.”

“Much like I didn't notice someone following us all day yesterday and taking pictures while they were at it?”

“These people are trained not to be seen, Bilbo,” Gandalf tries to reassure him, no doubt, “and you are hardly trained to spot them.”

“Yes, but...”

“It'll be alright. You'll be safe, I'll see to that.”

“Fine, yes, thank you, but...” Bilbo stares at the bushes trimmed into neat little cubes in front of him before he can muster the courage to sigh, “what about the boys? Will they be safe?”

“Perfectly safe,” Gandalf replies, and Bilbo manages to convince himself he's only imagining the faint pause before the man adds, “I give you my word. We'll get to the bottom of this, soon.”

“I hope so,” Bilbo peeps.

“Don't lose heart,” Gandalf says cheerfully, “and forward that e-mail to me, would you? I'll have my people take a look at it.”

“There's, um... there's not much to see there.”

“Just send it,” Gandalf tells him kindly, “and don't worry. I'll keep you posted. I'm assuming someone already told you how the meeting went between the Duchess of Khazad and Bifur Abkhûz? Did you tell the King's father about it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, yes,” Bilbo mutters, raising his hand faintly to in a greeting to one of the groundskeepers ahead, taking a turn to return to the Palace in a wide arch through the rose gardens, hoping he might run into less people there.

“Excellent. The three of them should meet, I think.”

“Yes, Thrain thinks so too,” Bilbo sighs, “I told him – and Bofur Abkhûz shares that sentiment – that it would be best to wait for after the elections...”

“Hmm,” Gandalf exhales, “I worry it might be too late then.”

“Why?” Bilbo asks, even though he doesn't _actually_ want to know the answer, “have you figured anything out? The Pattern?”

“Less than I'd like, to be honest with you,” Gandalf offers too earnestly for Bilbo's liking, but then, as if remembering himself, “but you needn't concern yourself with that. I've dragged you into far enough trouble already.”

“That at least we can agree on,” Bilbo sighs, “just... promise me everyone will be safe.”

“Absolutely. Take care, Bilbo.”

“And you.”

And that's it, really. Waiting. Pacing. None of that has really ever suited him. Plus now... The anger lingers, and he's not used to that, not in the slightest. He can't just sit idly by and let people _threaten him!_ Threaten what's dearest to him, dammit. Except... what can he do, _really?_ He doesn't... doesn't know enough to go and solve this mess on his own. Doesn't even know what to make of it most of the times, let's be honest.

He should... he should see to it that the Princes gain extra protection. Or he should go and tell the truth to someone who can actually do something about it. Balin? No, he's catering to that large group of Russians today, isn't he... Bilbo knows that a part of him is always _this close_ from outright panicking, because when it comes down to it he's still as clueless as he's always been, but... Another part of him speaks of courage. Of not letting anyone else decide things for him, of taking the reins of the speeding carriage that is his fate and make sure it doesn't swerve off the road.

He barely touches his lunch and can't wait to drive to pick up the boys, if only to see that they are alright. And of course they are, but Bilbo is incapable of relaxing. He keeps checking his rear view mirror all the way home, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't spot the car Gandalf had said he would send, or anyone else suspicious for that matter.

He doesn't leave the Princes' presence for the next couple of hours, even though he is distracted beyond measure. They are so happy, so blissfully oblivious, muddling through their homework and getting excited when Bilbo orders them all more cocoa from the kitchens, and he can't, he _mustn't_ let anything happen to them, not on his account...

Gandalf calls when Kili and Bilbo are in the middle of assembling the boy's newest thousand-piece puzzle, and Bilbo promptly dashes out of the room, leaving the flabbergasted Princes and the suspicious bodyguards behind, and his legs almost give out when Gandalf's first words are: “We've a plan.”

“Right,” Bilbo exhales raggedly, “what is it?”

“I need you to let me talk to Thrain,” Gandalf orders simply, “now.”

“Alright, I... just give me a minute. Hold on. Boys,” Bilbo announces into the room, “I'll be right back. Wait for me here, no wandering until dinner!”

He shuts the door behind them; doesn't have enough time to feel guilty _or_ worried about the inquisitive looks the Princes' bodyguards cast him as he marches by.

“What's the plan?” he demands once he's out of earshot.

“We'll be arranging a meeting – Mister Abkhûz and the Duchess need to meet up with Thrain, as soon as possible,” Gandalf explains calmly, “when Bard mentioned The Pattern to Miss Smythe, she had a little epiphany – apparently it sounded familiar because she'd read something pertaining to it in one of the files from the Azanulbizar Archives. Her grandmother and her are working on finding it right now. The Duchess is convinced that it has something to do with what Laura Ibindikhel had been working on before the revolution... I do apologize, that's an awful lot of names.”

“No no no, I follow,” Bilbo replies a bit breathlessly, as he's taking the stairs by two to get to the fourth floor and Thrain, “but how do you propose we make this meeting happen? Thrain can't exactly leave the premises, you know.”

“Yes, I know. That is why we will come to him,” Gandalf supplies simply.

“Wh – are you serious? How can you even... do that?”

“Rather easily, in fact. Bard has already scheduled an interview with Thrain, and bringing the Duchess and Mister Abkhûz along plays very well into the whole 'reminiscing of the past' business that will be a huge part of the article... Don't worry, Bilbo, we've got this all figured out quite nicely, I dare say. It helps that the King is away, to be honest with you.”

“I'm presuming you didn't tell him, then.”

“We did not. I'm certain Thrain will insist with you, just as he has insisted with me, that he is allowed to make his own decisions.”

“Yes, but...” Bilbo protests, dodging a couple of maids rushing in the opposite direction in one of the narrower corridors.

“Don't worry, this is entirely on me,” Gandalf replies, “you don't even have to be there for the thing, if that'll make you feel better.”

“You know, I don't think it will,” Bilbo grumbles.

He is allowed to see Thrain easily enough, no one particularly doubtful of his intentions. The old man is found in the reading room adjacent to Thorin's apartment, deep in reading, but lighting up the second he sees Bilbo, and getting outright excited when he's informed that Gandalf wants to speak to him.

Bilbo paces the span of the room while they talk, trying to discern what Thrain's faces mean. He doesn't say much himself with Gandalf doing the talking, but he seems eager to agree with everything, eventually handing the phone back to Bilbo and all but beaming, returning to the large book still spread on his knees and flicking through the pages swiftly.

“So?” Bilbo demands.

“Everything is going _just great,_ ” Gandalf is more than happy to announce, “I will set everything up with your Chief of Staff. It will happen on Saturday, and it's only up to you to figure out if you want to be there.”

“So... what? You're just going to have the _Order of Phoenix_ meet at the Palace just like that?” Bilbo groans, “oh, I'm pretty sure the King would _not_ be happy about this.”

“We share that sentiment, yes,” Gandalf replies lightly, “but the King won't be back until Sunday. This is a good thing, Bilbo. The recording of your conversation with Bunudshar is now in the hands of Chief Surkaz, and they're working hard on molding it into actual evidence. With luck, this will all be over very soon.”

“I do hope you're right,” Bilbo mumbles.

He is then subject to Thrain's excited planning and rambling, half of which doesn't make any sense, and he feels increasingly more like he could do with a warm drink. He's getting a headache, and the stress of the past couple of days is finally catching up with him, making his bones ache... Maybe he actually is coming down with something. Well, right on time. He hasn't been sick in years and _now_ his body is demanding he crawls under at least a dozen blankets and doesn't come out for at least a week? Convenient.

 

Friday is spent keeping himself in shape. Or, well, as far away from any stress as possible under the circumstances. He drinks ungodly amounts of herbal tea (which means something else in Erebor than it does back in England – the _potions_ Mirjam conjures for him are enough to knock him unconscious, he thinks; but also enough to burn all bacteria right out of him, hopefully). He actually goes to bed for an hour or two before lunch and then again in the afternoon when the boys are attending their lessons – _his_ bed, because he really doesn't feel like sneezing all over the King's massive twin and luxurious sheets.

Both Bard and Fridda text him an excited ' _See you on Saturday!_ ', and Bofur comes running when he learns the news as well – or rather, approaches Bilbo when he's managed to drag himself to the Staff building for more of Mirjam's killer hot ginger drink, and with very little regard for his frail constitution.

“I mean... will your Uncle be alright?” Bilbo sniffs after Bofur has expressed his excitement thoroughly, “I thought he wasn't... all that healthy quite yet?”

“Oh, no, he's fine, absolutely fine,” Bofur waves his hand, “well... he's allowed to go out, anyway. For the first time in years, he's not dependent on any machines or anything.”

“That's great,” Bilbo offers a watery smile, followed by the coughing fit of a tuberculosis patient – he wonders if _he_ might become dependent on some machines soon.

He all but limps back to his apartment, which is a truly insurmountable distance away from the Staff building and he feels like he's run a marathon, and crawls back into his bed, only bothering to kick off his shoes. He's in the middle of typing up a memo for Balin to see if he could arrange for someone else to go pick up Fili at his horse-riding lesson that takes place all the way across the premises (especially after gazing out of the window and seeing that the steel-gray clouds are gathering again), when his phone rings. _Blocked Number._ Oh _not again._ He groans, staring at the display blankly for a while, but his mind isn't even working properly enough for him to discern whether picking up is a good idea.

“Yes, hello,” he grunts rather unpleasantly, burying his face into the pillow.

“Ah... hello? Everything alright?”

Bilbo jolts upright, disregarding his spinning head and throbbing temples for that one moment.

“Thorin!” he exclaims, and another coughing fit seizes him shortly thereafter, and so his next words are rather raspy, “um... excuse me – that. But hello! Hi!”

“You sound horrible,” the King chuckles, “are you sick?”

“I'm fine, fine,” Bilbo waves him off, realizing far too late that Thorin can't actually see that, “just a minor cold. How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Being pressured into a fiscal union, negotiating better petrol prices...”

“So better than me,” Bilbo grumbles, and Thorin chuckles.

“Somewhat,” he agrees, “not too happy about missing you.”

“Oh,” Bilbo manages, rolling onto his back, “hmm. ...I _mean_ I miss you too, of course. _How_ you're capable of staying in that massive apartment all by yourself is _beyond me._ ”

“Well, I only ever realized I _didn't_ like staying there alone _after_ you turned up,” Thorin supplies effortlessly, and Bilbo imagines him pacing in some secluded room Dwalin had procured for him, that gentle smile on his lips, while he lies here all desperate and probably mildly feverish... Needless to say, it doesn't improve his mood overmuch.

“Right,” he sighs, “that explains a lot. Come back soon.”

“I'll do my best. Everything alright, aside from the inconveniently empty apartment?”

“Ah... yes,” Bilbo replies entirely too hesitantly, “the boys and me might have lunch here tomorrow, if you don't mind. They are far too excited about rummaging through your library, I'm afraid. _And_ that big TV, of course.”

“No problem at all,” the King agrees lightly, “I'm just sorry I won't be there for that.”

“There will be other lunches,” Bilbo supplies, barely convincing himself.

“I sure hope so. Listen, I have to go again. I just wanted to check in on you...”

“Take care,” Bilbo smiles, his arm draped over his face in the faint hope that he might preserve the pleasant moment for a while longer.

“You too. See you on Sunday – oh, hold on, Balin tells me you wanted to talk to me about something right before I left?”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps, eyes fluttering open, “oh... right. No, yes, that can definitely wait for when you get back. It's... it's nothing.”

“If you say so. I'll see you soon!”

And with that the call is over, and Bilbo feels like he should have said more, should have... told Thorin at least _something,_ but... Oh well. He'll last two more days, won't he?

Won't he?

 

The entirety of Saturday happens too quick for his liking. He wakes up with his head heavy, throat sore, and can barely keep up with the boys. The overnight storm has left them with a clear cloudless sky, and the Princes are excited to spend at least some part of the day outside, which Bilbo would object to if he could. He's only lucky he doesn't know how to ride – otherwise he'd definitely be roped into joining the boys as they trot on the vast premises, the hooves of their ponies all but plowing the lawns and turning the damp walkways into mud. Bilbo makes himself scarce, deciding to blame all that on the riding instructors if the need arises. Upon retreating into the Staff building, he meets an overexcited Bofur, who tells him that the big secret meeting will occur after dinner – a fact that is soon confirmed by Bard, Fridda _and_ Gandalf, all three contacting Bilbo separately as if they're on _a mission_ to make his headache even worse.

Subdued by some mild painkillers (Erebor apparently has a number of its own brands of pills, which should be unnerving seeing as doesn't really recognize the names, but he's mostly just glad they work) he decides that alright, he won't push it. Will avoid the fourth floor for as long as possible – Bofur had told him that that where it's all going to happen, in Thrain's quarters – and also perhaps avoid Balin, in case he has any questions whatsoever.

This proves more difficult than he'd expected, because Bard arrives incredibly early and at the very moment that Bilbo is on his way from his apartment to the Princes' room to get them ready to dinner – which is his only excuse for leaving the eager journalist behind and rushing as far away from him as possible. And _honestly,_ must everyone be _so damn excited_ about this?! Bilbo is certain that at least one of them will utter the words ' _history in the making_ ' at some point in the evening, and he doesn't think he can stomach that.

He dines with the boys as slowly as possible, but they are still excited from the eventful day, and especially the lunch at Thorin's place, and plead with Bilbo over and over again to return there – he simply can't say no, blast it. Upon leading them to the fourth floor, he knows they never should have left the safety of their rooms. The first they see Bofur, who seems incredibly out of place in this part of the Palace (or, inside the Palace at all, Bilbo realizes) and _not_ dressed in his chauffeur's uniform. Bombur appears at his side and they wave at him, and there's Gandalf, noticing Bilbo...

“What is going on there?” Fili wonders, and Bilbo merely babbles something about some important press junket and ushers the boys past the company. Well, this wasn't a good idea. What is he going to do now, keep an eye on the Princes in Thorin's apartment while The Meeting is happening so close by? As much as he'd like to deny it, he _is_ deathly curious.

“And where are you off to?”

That's Balin, stopping them in their tracks.

“We, ah... I promised them they could spend some more time in His Majesty's apartment,” Bilbo supplies.

“I see,” Balin notes, inspecting Bilbo with a care that has nothing to do with him escorting the Princes around the Palace at such an unusual hour, “and what did His Majesty have to say about that?”

“He... Well, I spoke with him about the lunch, and that seemed alright with him, so I figured...”

“Bert, Tom,” Balin orders the boys' bodyguards, who have been tailing them like obedient overgrown puppies, “please escort the Princes to the King's quarters. Professor Baggins will be with you shortly.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, half helplessly, half inquisitively, but the boys are already rushing ahead. Balin sizes him up and down, and then sighs.

“Look, I don't know what's going on,” he cocks his head to where they all came from, to where Gandalf is now conducting that meeting, “and I don't know if you're a part of it-”

“Oh, no no, I have nothing to do with that,” Bilbo blurts out a second before realizing he should have went with ' _A part of what?_ ' instead.

“Right,” Balin's eyes narrow, “still, Doctor Grey would like to speak with you, _for some reason._ I can arrange for the boys to be looked after until you're finished.”

“No, Balin, I don't want to... I don't know...”

“Bilbo!” 

That's Fridda, popping out from behind the corner at the least convenient time and waving at him as if nothing's going on, and Balin's face is a perfect grimace of ' _oh really_ '. Bilbo has the decency to blush.

“I...” he manages.

“Just go,” the Chief of Staff sighs, “we'll talk about this later. I just hope you're not getting mixed up in something... unsavory.”

“Unsavory?!” Bilbo's huff of laughter has a somewhat hysteric edge, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Mmhm. Go now. I expect to talk to you afterward.”

Bilbo tries to engage him in a staring contest, but soon finds he doesn't have the capacity for that – never did, really.

“Okay,” he sighs, “fine. I... thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Off you go.”

 

It is... unlike anything he would have expected, to be honest. Thrain's quarters are much, much cozier than Thorin's, and there is... tea. Lots of tea. And biscuits. And three very old people huddled together in a very lively conversation, while the younglings look on them with a mixture of fondness and worry. It reminds Bilbo of some of his family reunions, and he doesn't really know if that's a good feeling or not.

“Ah, Bilbo, finally,” Gandalf greets him, “let me introduce you to everyone.”

It feels like meeting some distant relatives he didn't know he had – he feels at least two decades younger, and inexplicably nervous. The Duchess, Fridda's grandmother, remembers him from the Gala – a very tall, stick-thin lady, with a highly regal air about her, sharp features and bright clever eyes. Bilbo guesses that it probably takes her about ten seconds to size him up and down and make her assumptions – he thinks he can do without knowing what they are. When she shakes his hand, her hold is firmer than he'd expect, and she keeps watching him even when he moves on and away.

Bifur Abkhûz is an entirely different cup of tea – out of the three seniors in the room, he looks the most frail. He is very short and very strange, with a square jaw and a mussed mop of hair. A rather noticeable scar cuts from his forehead into his hairline, and at first sight, he looks too beaten to be anywhere but a hospital bed, an old large sweater over a flannel shirt making him appear even smaller. But there is something about him... A spark. His voice is low and ragged, but once he starts, he seems like he will never want to stop. At one point later on, he stands up from his chair and begins pacing the room, using his beautiful cane, and Bilbo casts a surprised look to Bofur, who merely nods, _yes, this is what he's like._ Bilbo is reminded that the man used to be a miner, and it all makes a little more sense.

 

One day, he will have a hard time remembering the events of that evening. It will all have melted into a confusing cacophony of people talking over one another, the ringing of Gandalf's phone seemingly every other minute, and the wind picking up again and howling outside. He will remember the warmth of the tea, and the smell of the biscuits, of which he ate many, because any time he got too nervous, it proved a strange comfort to have his mouth stuffed with what the Ereboreans called The _Buttery Delight._ Buttery Delight.

All in all, he will end up remembering the unimportant things, because as far as the important ones go... Well, his mind would wander a lot that evening. Everybody argued a lot, and laughed even more, and it was very difficult to make Thrain or the Duchess _or_ Bifur concentrate on anything else than reminiscing of the good old times before the revolution. They would go as far as their collective youth in Erebor, adhering to that age-old rule that it is much easier for really old people to remember what happened five decades ago, rather than one.

And Gandalf let them talk. Bard had placed a recorder in the middle of the large table they were all seated at, and seemed very satisfied, as did Fridda. And it _had been_ rather interesting listening to the stories. Many times after that, Bilbo will wish that the stories had been all there was to that evening.

But of course they'd worked their way up to the time ten, twelve years ago eventually, and familiar names started appearing in the conversation. Thrain and Bifur shared a short attention span, often ending up muttering utter nonsense to themselves, or between themselves, and it was very hard to keep track of what they were onto. Thankfully, the Duchess always seemed to know how to steer them in the right direction...

And they must have been quite wonderful back then, Bilbo decided at some point. Yes, very 'Order of Phoenix'. He will remember them lamenting the absence of Laura Ibindikhel, Bard's mother, and he will remember the very air in the room seemingly cooling a couple of degrees when they started talking about Bundushar at last.

At one point, Gandalf had played for them the recording of Bilbo's conversation with the man, and Bilbo will remember how terrifying it had been, hearing it all over again, hearing his own voice and barely recognizing himself. He will remember the Duchess calling him very brave. He will remember The Pattern, of course. How they'd cracked what had seemed like the enigma of the century with a couple of newspaper articles dating about fifteen years back, and the ghost of Bard's mother, the author of those, steering them in the right direction. It had all been very exciting for everyone involved – Thrain's ramblings finally gained weight and something to back them up, and Bard gained enough material to finish his mother's work, and Gandalf started the process of bringing down Bundushar right there and then, over a cup of Darjeeling... But none of that will matter. 

Bilbo will spend many a sleepless night wondering how they could have missed... well, everything they'd missed. Bundushar's plan had been _so clear_ to see through. So obvious. So simple. Because it had been intended that way. Bilbo will remember feeling like something wasn't quite right – he'd thought it was because of the cold, because his head overloaded with new information simply refused to cooperate with him at some point and reverted to what he knew best – suspicion. He'd tried to convince himself over and over again that all those people in the room with him knew better, and had things under control, and that it was all coming to a successful ending.

When he will close his eyes, he will see so clearly the dim hallway he'd wandered into to go check on the Princes, because it had been a couple of hours, and he felt like everyone would be able to carry on without him for a couple of minutes. Also, he'd needed fresh air. Yes. For some reason, that detail will stick with him. He will remember Gandalf catching up with him, saying that he's leaving and that they'd talk later, and to take care, and _we've got this, it's done, it's over._ He will remember smiling and nodding and believing it.

He will remember some little sensible part of him wondering why there's so little security everywhere, but dismissing that in the end. He will remember the strange tingle dancing up his spine upon entering the stairwell that would take him one floor down to the boys' rooms; and he will always, with perfect clarity, recall exactly how the first gunshot had sounded. And how strange it had been, his hearing deceiving him so utterly and completely, making him run in the wrong direction. 

There had been only two gunshots that night as far as he knows, and he will never ever stop wondering why it is that he'd heard the first one so clearly, but somehow forgot the sound of the second one altogether. Perhaps people who get shot only remember the pain – which is, yes, the one thing he will wish he knew how to forget.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the strangest way of telling stories, and I feel I owe you guys an apology. I gotta say I'm rather satisfied with this chapter overall, but oh my god am I taking my time with actually explaining things. I'm sorry. But yeah, it feels kind of nice to have one of the last major plot points out of the way, oh man. Even though it's so vague. For now. I promise everything will clear up at long last with the next chapter – for everyone involved. Only three more chapters to go, and I'm adamant to finish before June! Couldn't have gotten this far without your support, so thank you, thank you, and thrice thank you, and I hope I didn't enrage/confuse you with this weird cliffhangerish ending.


	24. Chapter 24

It's not entirely true, what they tell you about your whole life flashing before your eyes when you think you're going to die. It looks very nice in the movies, the montages of the most important moments, faces of the people who matter to you, and so on. Bilbo remembers thinking _oh so this is it,_ and _god, I hope the boys are back in their rooms,_ and then that was it. It's unfair, really. He doesn't see where the shot came from, can't even really tell where he was hit, because the sheer force of it knocks him off his feet almost effortlessly.

The floor speeds up to meet him, and all he can think about is _why didn't this happen in the Common Wing, at least the carpets there are red._ The pain is like a straightjacket, eclipsing him and rendering him incapable of moving, and every breath he takes is more laborious than the one before. He tastes copper, and hears voices and rushed footsteps that might or might not exist only in his head, and then there's a grip on his shoulder, which might just be another illusion, and someone's saying his name, _Bilbo, Bilbo,_ and he wants to tell them to go away, it's not supposed to happen like this.

But it does, it does happen, and in the split second before losing consciousness, he thinks he remembers being afraid, but then the world fades away and nothing really matters anymore.

 

He wakes first into a dim haze, his eyes almost refusing to blink open, and something hurts when he tries to breathe in properly for the first time. His chest aches because his heart decides to greet him by beating out a rather frantic rhythm, and he thinks he feels something cold and foreign on his forearms and on his face... It's all too much to take, and so, not caring overmuch for whatever danger he might still be in, he decides to clock off and go back to sleep. Yes.

His mother is serving breakfast. Scrambled eggs and sausages and tiny mushrooms fried on butter, and Bilbo doesn't like those, oh no, he always stashes them at the edge of his plate. The rich morning sun makes all the colors in the kitchen brighter, and he thinks he can hear the birds chirping and cars passing by outside, the window flung open and letting all that pleasant hum inside. He can't see his mother, but knows she's right there, right behind him by the kitchen sink, tying her flower-patterned apron around her waist, her hair gathered in a messy high bun...

She's saying something to him, but it's as if her voice is coming from a radio two rooms over – Bilbo couldn't make out the words even if he tried, and he thinks he doesn't need to. It's all good, anyway. Very peaceful. Soon, he'll grab his school bag and she'll remind him to look twice before crossing the street, and he'll be off...

_It's too late for that._

That's another voice, one he doesn't recognize, but it's much clearer, even though he tries very hard not to hear it.

_It's too late._

“No,” he says, his mouth still full, “no, I can still make it.”

_Too late._

He stands up abruptly, grabbing his school bag and darting out of the room, and the hum of his mother's voice doesn't cease, and something tells him it's better this way, if he just disappears when she's not looking...

_Too late – you'll never make it._

He speeds out of the door and onto the sidewalk, the shine of the morning sun through the canopy of chestnut leaves almost blinding him, and he knows that he can make it to the corner by the barber shop, can get there in time for the school bus, of course he can, he's done it countless times before.

He breaks into a run, the cobblestones below his feet a dark blur, and he's there, he's almost there, of course he will make it, he made it that one time he walked out of the house and saw the bus closing its door, he's always made it, if he can just...

The shot echoes off the surrounding buildings like a great slap, and he thinks it might be a car backfiring, or something, anything else, but the shock still propels him forward and onto his knees, and oh, if he tears these trousers, Mum will just _kill him._ The pavement is surprisingly soft, and the warm golden glow of the sun recedes, replaced by a soft bluish haze, and he suddenly feels cold, hears footsteps, hears voices, _Bilbo, Bilbo, it's too late, too late..._

 

He snaps awake, and it takes a moment before everything starts making sense. He is indeed cold – that is the first sensation he recognizes. And everything is strangely hostile and blue around him – it takes him quite a while to focus, and at last he decides that it's because of the closed curtains, the thin fabric alight with the daylight trying and failing to get into the room. The room... He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, and when he opens them again, he's already decided to try harder to concentrate.

White sheets, strange railing on his bed, a tall ceiling, a television hoisted up on the wall opposite him, and that beeping... what _is that?_ With much hardship, he turns his head and sees some sort of a machine next to his bed, with a screen and everything, blinking and beeping at him almost cheerfully... _Oh._ He's in a hospital. Well, that took him long enough, oh boy.

That strange feeling of something snaking around his wrist returns to him (returns? When did he ever feel it before? Everything is dizzy), and he raises his hands to look at them, and sees thin, translucent tubes crawling from the back of his left hand up his forearm like cobwebs, and disappearing under the unfamiliar fabric of... whatever he's wearing.

Even holding his hand up is an ordeal, he soon realizes, and so he lets it drop back down. He tries to shift in the bed, because there's an odd pressure on his hip and the small of his back, like someone has forgotten something between the sheets before they tucked him in. His every movement is overly careful, because he expects pain to kick in at any moment – though he does not remember _why_ he expects it. Was it... What happened, exactly?

No, sitting up is not an option, apparently – his muscles refuse to cooperate. It's as if he's weighed down by the very blood coursing through his veins, as if his body only has a limited amount of work it is allowed, and he's just run short of that. _Painkillers, probably,_ his brain supplies with surprising clarity, then returns to that odd muddled way of thinking – what, why, _what pain?_ It's all very difficult to navigate, like trying to remember a passage of a textbook he's only ever glanced over and never took the time to commit to memory properly. His mind keeps only glazing over the edge of what he _should be_ remembering, stubbornly and unhelpfully. And then there's that _incessant_ beeping, and has it been speeding up?! Oh, this is just grand, he'll never be able to remember like this!

The door flies open, and there is a pang of pain then at last as he startles upright, or at least tries to – and it's good, in a way, because it cuts straight through the thick veil draped over his thinking, for at least a moment. The person in the door is a nurse, a bright smile spreading over her face, and momentarily, Bilbo worries about how he must look, his hair probably a mess, his... what _on earth_ is the thing he's wearing – one of those ugly hospital shirts with no backside? Lovely.

“Welcome back, Mister Baggins,” the nurse says, and he's glad to hear and recognize the light accent – means he's still in Erebor at least, right?

Why shouldn't he be, again? Thinking straight is taking a lot out of him.

“Back?” he parrots feebly, then, clearing his throat because it is incredibly dry, “where did I... go?”

She smiles even more fondly, and moves to rearrange the pillows behind him so that he's more comfortable.

“You were asleep for about two days,” she supplies helpfully.

“Why, what did... what happened to me?” Bilbo slurs, even though he's trying his damnedest to enunciate.

“You were shot, sir,” comes a simple reply, “you underwent surgery, and we kept you asleep for a while to recuperate better. Nothing serious, don't worry.”

“Being shot sounds... sounds quite serious,” Bilbo counters weakly, trying to discern _where_ exactly he'd been shot – his whole body feels heavy and numb, whatever pain he should be feeling right now probably averted expertly by some pills or something.

“Not to worry, sir,” the nurse continues in her easygoing tone, as if they're discussing weather, “can you remember what happened to you at all?”

Bilbo gapes at her, then at the wall... Can he remember? When he concentrates hard enough, he sees a hallway, richly patterned carpets and paintings on the walls and all... He remembers sitting around a table, there had been Gandalf, and Bard, and Fridda, and yes, oh, Thrain and Bofur with his uncle, and the Duchess... and biscuits...

“I'll... try,” he says uncertainly, and is rewarded with yet another smile.

“I'm sure that's all it will take. You lie still, I'll go fetch the doctor to take a look at you.”

It takes him a while to absorb all her words, but then he nods.

“Can you...?” he mumbles, gesturing weakly towards the window, “the curtains? I'd like to...”

“Of course!”

The light is blinding, but not painfully so, and he sees... green. Leaves of a tree fluttering, and beyond them a patch of dark sky.

“I don't know... where I am,” he admits meekly.

“Somewhere safe,” comes a vague reply, “now, your belongings are in here. Do you want me to hand you anything?”

He can see her pointing to the nightstand, but it takes him excruciatingly long to understand.

“Oh,” he peeps, “oh, I... yes, my – my phone, please?”

“Here you go. Anything else I can do for you before I go find the doctor?”

The weight of his phone feels foreign, feels like _too much_ in his hand, and he really does have trouble concentrating.

“Um, could I get a glass of water?” he tries, not even sure the words will come out at all, “or something? I'm really... quite thirsty.”

“I'll see what I can do,” she nods with that unyielding smile, “I'll be right back. If you feel any discomfort at all, this little button will tell us to come calling.”

She shows him it like showing something entirely new to a child, and he thinks a part of him still exists that would be offended under different circumstances, but it's buried to deep now, in slumber – he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to conjure it back up again.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and she disappears as quickly as she came.

He buries his head into the now-much-softer pillow and gazes out of the window for a bit. He thinks he can see raindrops like tiny glittering beads on it, but to see that properly, he would need his glasses...

Ever so slowly, feeling the need to grip his phone in one hand and thus making everything that much harder for himself, he rolls over for a bit to look into the drawer with where his things allegedly are. As he attempts to pull it open, something... _tugs._ Like a cramp in his gut, or something, and he hisses, even though he's not really in pain, not yet, and decides for a new course of action. Using every ounce of his strength, he sits up a little bit, and rolls up the thin fabric of his shirt, only to reveal bandages around his stomach and chest, crisp white and soft... he maps them out with his fingers, carefully, discovering that a stripe travels over his shoulder, presumably to secure everything in place. A sudden nausea overcomes him, and he rolls the shirt back down and slumps into the sheets, staring at the ceiling for a good long moment. He's been shot. He feels oddly... detached from the whole thing. From his own injury (which he still doesn't know the scope _or_ exact location of, anyway).

He listens to the doctor describe the details of him – _very lucky, a clean shot, no exit wound, lower left abdomen, intestines largely unaffected, recovery assumed without problems, diet necessary –_ and he wills his body to agree. Almost wishes for the pain, but the whole area of his stomach and his lower back is stubbornly unresponsive. _Come on,_ he wants to groan, _tell me that this is real. That this actually happened._

He feels very silly when the nurse oversees him taking a careful sip of water – it does nothing, merely soothes his sore throat a little bit, and he feels... dull. Like some of his resolve, and a large part of his active thinking, have leaked out with however much blood he'd lost. They tell him he might feel dizzy throughout the day (apparently it's sometime around lunch, and he doesn't know how to feel about that), and that it's perfectly normal, and to beep whenever he feels even a little bit of discomfort.

The nurse hands him the remote for the TV, and promises he will be able to take a walk tomorrow, complimenting him on his restlessness, but he's not... he's not restless. Anything but. His tired brain is trying to remind of all the worrying that had seemed _so important_ not so long ago, but the details escape him still.

At long last, he discovers that his phone is still operational and that the battery is _not dead,_ and not feeling particularly relieved about that, he calls Gandalf, hoping he might be too busy to pick up.

“Bilbo!”

So, unfortunately, he _does_ pick up, and sounds rather agitated, too. Bilbo wonders if he has it in him to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.

“Hello,” he says feebly.

“You're awake! How are you feeling?”

“I'm not... I don't know,” Bilbo sighs, “how... should I be feeling? What is going on, Gandalf?”

“You sound like you could use some more sleep,” the man chuckles, and Bilbo chuckles with him, involuntary, tired.

“Tell you what,” Gandalf decides, “I'll stop by this afternoon – can you wait until then? I'd love to answer all your questions now, but-”

“I don't have... any questions,” Bilbo replies almost defensively.

“Then I expect you will soon enough. For now let me just say that everybody's safe. Well, more or less – those currently standing in His Majesty's way might not be so.”

“He knows,” Bilbo exhales, and it's not even a question.

“Well, of course he does,” Gandalf supplies, acting as if it's _good news,_ “but don't worry – out of all of us, _you're_ certainly not on his list of people to behead whenever he gets the chance.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo peeps, and he feels something sharp rising in his throat, some phantom pain coming out of nowhere, completely unrelated to his injury, of course, “what happened?”

“I'll explain everything when I get there, I promise,” the man says honestly, “but for now, I need you to just wait for me. Rest. Everything's under control.”

“Under control,” Bilbo repeats, deciding to believe Gandalf for once in his life.

“Yes. I'll see you soon, my dear fellow.”

And Bilbo might mumble something under his breath in a botched attempt at a polite reply, but an inescapable, all-encompassing darkness is already eating away at the corners of his consciousness, and he thinks that letting it take over and lull him to sleep might be his best decision as of late.

 

When he wakes up again, it is to a much different light, the room bathing in almost ethereally beautiful pink and golden glow of late-afternoon sun – thanks to it, he manages not to feel so bad about discovering Gandalf sitting by his bed.

“Hello,” he attempts, but his vocal cords don't really rise up to the challenge – Gandalf has the sense not to help him as he reaches for the glass of water ever so slowly and takes a very careful sip. The man is watching Bilbo warily, as if he's afraid he might crumble to dust at any given second, but Bilbo doesn't have the capacity to care about that – the water tastes like ambrosia now, and he buries himself back into the cool sheets after he's sated his thirst, perfectly ready to go back to sleep.

“I'm so sorry for all of this, Bilbo,” Gandalf says, and his tone is so earnest that Bilbo does afford him what little attention he can give.

“We – I should have seen this coming,” Gandalf continues, “it was all going a bit too well, don't you think?”

“It was?” Bilbo mutters, then when Gandalf's eyebrows arch up, “you see, I don't... It's not that I don't remember, it's just... It's all very fuzzy. I have some trouble recalling exactly what...”

He trails off. It's like his own mind is deliberately keeping the more intense details of the whole ordeal from him – like he couldn't access them even if he really tried. Some sort of self-preservation mechanism, perhaps.

“Do you want me to recap it for you, then?” Gandalf asks gently, and without thinking about it too hard, Bilbo nods. Maybe he'll start remembering as they go.

“Well, we managed to gather everyone together – get the Duchess and Bifur Abkhûz to meet with Thrain at the Palace.”

“Yes, and we sat around a big table, and there were... biscuits?” Bilbo frowns – thinking too much is trying to swim through mud. Strains his muscles, and he has very little hope of getting anywhere.

“A lot of biscuits, as I recall, yes,” Gandalf replies, and a small smile dances on his lips, but fades quickly with his next words, “it had turned out to be a very good idea as far as revealing Bundushar's intentions went, but, well, turns out we didn't quite reveal _all of them._ ”

“The Pattern,” Bilbo exhales, and his temples throb as if in a warning.

“Oh yes. Interesting, that. Bard was very proud to learn about what role his mother had played in that. I think he's in the process of reconstructing the bulk of it right now, and giving it a publishable form. As things go in Erebor, there will be an official statement on... Thursday, I think?”

“Today is...?” Bilbo asks, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

“Monday,” Gandalf supplies lightly.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Everything happens so quickly around here.”

“That's true,” Bilbo sighs, and it seems to him more and more of his energy dissipates from his body with each breath he lets escape his lungs – he tries to fight it, he really does.

“So, is Bundushar...?” he asks, and a part of him knows the question is too big, too widespread, but he just needs to hear...

“He's been officially charged with... a lot of things, conspiracy to commit murder among them, but he's hiding. Hasn't left the country, as far as we know.”

Not that.

“Was he the one who shot me?” Bilbo asks, and it's entirely silly and also wrong, he knows, but he doesn't seem to have much control over his words yet.

“Of course not,” Gandalf replies.

“Then who?”

“Someone working for him, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Bilbo repeats, and for some reason, that short phrase tugs at something buried deep in the currently unavailable parts of his mind – it takes him ages to form the next question, uncertain he should even be asking it at all.

“Do you... not know who...?”

“It was someone who knew Thrain, the Duchess and Bifur would all be in the Palace at the same time,” Gandalf declares simply, “Bundushar knew that once we got these three together, it would only be a matter of time to discover what he was up to. It is sensible to assume that he would want to get rid of them, all at once. It is _not_ sensible of him to try and do so in the most highly protected building in the whole country, but there you have it.”

“But... how?” Bilbo asks feebly, “how did he – I mean... this makes very little sense in general, Gandalf. I thought we'd decided that bringing him down would only be a matter of... what was it? A couple of carefully selected words?”

“Oh, so you _do_ remember,” Gandalf smiles somberly.

“Mostly,” Bilbo lies.

“Well,” Gandalf exhales, leaning back in his chair (he looks more tired than Bilbo has ever seen him, he observes), “the theory is that he's had a mole this whole time. Someone _dirty –_ forgive the procedural cop show slang – who had been feeding him vital information all along.”

“And you don't know who this person is,” Bilbo mumbles.

“There are... suspects. Someone infiltrated the Palace entirely unnoticed, and knew exactly where to go to find our... gathering. Shot you, and made it look very much like an accident, like you were in the way, nothing more.”

“I had been in the way all along, hadn't I,” Bilbo notes dryly.

“Now then,” Gandalf notes softly, “none of this is your fault. None of us saw this coming. I had already been halfway out of the Palace when it happened, and by the time I made it back...”

“What?” Bilbo asks, pressing his hand against his stomach in some attempt to support himself as he rolls over to his side to get a better view of Gandalf, “what happened?”

The man gazes at him almost sadly for a long, excruciating moment, and reminds Bilbo of the Gandalf he used to know, more than at any point during his stay here – of the bright tall man striding through the hallways of the school Bilbo had spent his best years at. Where did that disappear off to, again?

“Well, you had been shot, for one,” Gandalf says at last, and his usually genuine, cheerful smile has a forced edge now, “I was afraid that the others were in imminent danger as well, but...”

“But?” Bilbo prods, after a period of time where Gandalf does nothing but frown at nothing in particular, deep in thought.

“Well, I called for help for you, which didn't go without issuing a lockdown on the entirety of the premises, of course, and then closed off Thrain, Bifur and the Duchess with the rest in one room, and we waited,” he continues almost reluctantly, “a long time. I'd made arrangements with Chief Surkaz's men – they were supposed to monitor everything, and strike in if necessary, but they certainly took their sweet time. But I suppose there was nothing to... well, report in the end. Whoever shot you either couldn't finish their mission, whatever it was, or – and that is the worse option – got exactly what they wanted and disappeared as quickly as they came.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo peeps, his own voice in his own ears sounding much more horrified than he'd expect – and Gandalf simply stares at him, brow furrowed.

“Bilbo, are you absolutely certain you don't know who shot you?”

There's that throbbing in his temples again, and Bilbo almost groans against the pain, wishing for nothing more than to fall back asleep again – but though he's still incredibly useless when it comes to concentrating _or_ thinking straight at all, his body doesn't seem to want to rest right now. No, he's feeling a strange sort of agitation now, like a persistent ghost pressure at the back of his spine, goosebumps and a cold that has nothing to do with the truly autumnal weather outside.

“I don't... I can't remember,” he replies obediently, quietly, “I couldn't see – I didn't even see where the... the shot came from, to be honest with you. I heard the first one, and I think I – I ran, I don't know why, I think I had this... this idea that whoever was shooting was trying to get to the Princes, and so I ran in that direction, at least I think I did... And then... well. You know. I remember, err... falling? Yes, I suppose that's obvious. But no details, just – just that. G-getting shot. Pain?”

Gandalf now glares at him almost dumbfounded, and Bilbo realizes how it all must sound – but all of it is just one big blur now, even the pain. Even something he _remembers feeling,_ remembers deciding he'll have to re-categorize his physically painful experiences, because nothing, not even falling off that tree when he was fourteen and breaking his arm in two different places, will ever compare to _this..._ But he doesn't remember. Doesn't know. It's like looking at a photograph – he can recall what he'd felt at that moment, but it's not the same as really feeling it _now._ All in all, he feels very odd and not at all strong.

“I'm sorry,” he chuckles with an apologetic smile, “I'm not being very helpful, am I.”

It's as if his words wake Gandalf up from some sort of a haze, and he refocuses at Bilbo as if he's seeing him for the first time.

“Two gunshots,” he says slowly, almost carefully, “the one that hit you, and... one before that? Are you _positive_ you heard another one?”

“Oh, um... yes?” Bilbo tilts his head, “yes, I did. It scared me out of my wits. I told you, that's why I ran... wherever I thought it would be best to run, I...”

“Fascinating. Then that must have been the one that I heard as well, because it sent me running as well – back to you, of course. But two? I can't remember hearing another one. I will have to look into this. The video camera recordings have been inconclusive so far, or so I'm told, but this is a new angle to consider.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo says again, almost desperately, trying to get to him through that far-too-familiar growing excitement, “what should I do?”

Gandalf looks at him almost surprised.

“What do you _want to do_ , Bilbo?” he notes, “I expect you should rest some more, maybe try taking a walk tomorrow – it's common knowledge that lying down for too long after a surgery is not good for your blood circulation...”

“No, yes, but what should I _do?_ ” Bilbo repeats insistently, “I mean – won't people want to ask me questions? And what about the Princes, I mean, I still have a job to do, and-”

“Bilbo,” Gandalf interrupts him, “relax. _Honestly_ relax. You deserve this break more than anyone – you've been _shot,_ for crying out loud. You need to stay calm. Everything is being taken care of as we speak.”

“Doesn't sound that way to me,” Bilbo grumbles, averting his gaze, and Gandalf laughs shortly.

“Nothing is quite as bad as it seems. Don't concern yourself with this mess anymore – I never should have dragged you into it in the first place. We'll find Bundushar soon enough. It will all be over soon.”

“Didn't you say that to me once before – that it was over?” Bilbo remarks, and Gandalf sighs raggedly.  
“I believe I did. But it is – it should be. For you. You're safe now, and I'm devoting all my efforts to keep you that way. I don't want any more brave moves and speculating and lying from you. It's all good now. You've done enough.”

Bilbo stares at him, less and less convinced with each word.

“I can't just... forget all of this ever happened,” he counters stubbornly.

“No, I don't think you can – and I don't think you should. But I promise you you won't have to talk to the media about it, or be subject to any interrogation or anything. The police might want to speak with you at some point to take a statement, but that won't be for at least the next couple of days, and even if that happens, I'll be there to guide you through it and see that it doesn't affect you more than necessary. But please, promise me you'll just concentrate on getting better now. That's all I ask of you.”

Bilbo holds his gaze, something akin to defiance stirring within, but he can't really last long, of course – and so he gives up first, sighing and burrowing deeper into his sheets.

“Who's to say someone won't come shoot me here?” he babbles; realizes just how much the conversation has taken out of him – his limbs and head far too heavy, he's just about ready to go back to sleep.

“You're perfectly safe here,” Gandalf smiles, “I guarantee you that. Ask Bifur Abkhûz – he's lived here for years.”

“Wait – what?” Bilbo scowls, and Gandalf inclines his head.

“Did nobody tell you where you are?”

“A hospital?” Bilbo scoffs, then, groaning, “no, Gandalf, nobody told me where I am. _Where am I?_ ”

“The _Vustduban_ Recovery Facility,” Gandalf replies with an almost proud twinkle in his eye, “it serves mainly as a safe haven for various permanently hospitalized people – like Mister Abkhûz – but it has a rather excellent medical team on standby as well, of course. It was my decision to have you treated here, rather than a common hospital. It's safer, and I dare say the food will be much, much better, once you're allowed to taste it. I'm sure they'll let you visit Mister Abkhûz whenever you feel fit enough. These people are professionals – discretion is their priority. No one will bother you here without your explicit say so. They'll probably ask you soon enough to approve a list of visitors, and won't let in anyone who isn't on it. You'll have a perfectly comfortable recovery here, I promise.”

It is Bilbo's turn to gape at him wordlessly, somewhat taken aback. Something within him tries to protest against all of this, but it's not powerful enough yet, subdued by painkillers and a weariness that's been threatening to overcome him long before a gunshot gave him an actual opportunity to rest for days on end.

“Thank you,” he says at last, very quietly, gaze darting out of the window. It has started to rain, and he battles with the need to clutch his blanket and pull it all the way up to his chin, like he used to do when he was a child.

“You are more than welcome, my friend,” Gandalf replies, “it's the least I could do after everything I've put you through. Now rest more, worry less. Watch the news if you feel like it. I'll let you know if I have the time to visit you again, but I'll keep in touch either way.”

He lets the question hang in the air.

“Alright,” Bilbo replies colorlessly, “how long do you think I will have to stay here before I can return to the Palace?”

“No idea,” Gandalf shrugs, “discuss it with the doctors, work something out. But I would implore you to stay here for at least a week, maybe two. Until the elections blow over. Or, better yet, until we get our hands on Bundushar. Until then...”

Bilbo searches for a hint of _something_ in his face, doesn't really know what, but then, once again, he gives up, nodding shortly.

A sort of dull, clueless helplessness overcomes him once the door shuts behind Gandalf. Apparently, his head has other things planned than letting him sleep. Something is nagging now at the back of it, something he won't be able to grasp at until his head is perfectly clear, but... He likes this less and less. Not being able to remember properly, seeing the events that led to him being here as nothing more than blurry pictures, disconnected from one another.

Valiantly (and very slowly) he slips out of his bed – moving his legs is an ordeal, but not impossible, and he's relieved when he actually _feels_ the cold ground under his feet. He's wearing socks he doesn't remember owning, remembers very vaguely that his mother used to wear the same when she was in the hospital – helping with blood circulation, or something. He stands up having forgotten about the tubes leading from his hand to the IV drip, but fortunately the whole thing is mobile, and so he leans on it and takes the very first cautious step forward. It's much less difficult than he'd anticipated, though it feels like he's dragging a lead weight along with him, resting somewhere in his gut.

First, he makes his way to the window. He's on the second floor of the building, and sees the leaves of a rather monumental chestnut tree almost touching the glass, and below and beyond it a neatly trimmed lawn, crisscrossed with walkways and benches, all wet after a recent rain. He could almost be back at the _Hurmulkezer_ still – the quietly organized way of the park below him reminds him so much of the Palace grounds. He's suddenly very sad, and his mind wanders to Thorin, and the boys. He wants to talk to them, hear their voices... should he? He doesn't actually know what to do.

He feels like an old man, leaning on his... what are they called? IV drip-hanger-things? He's never actually been in a hospital himself before. Ah yes, his mind keeps wandering... He sighs heavily, raggedly, and is glad when nature calls – it's why he decided to crawl out of bed at all, and it means things are still... working right at least, yes?

It takes him stupidly long to cross the room, and even more stupidly long to use the bathroom, but that's nothing compared to the time he spends simply standing in front of the mirror and glaring at his own reflection.

He looks... well, horrid, there really is no other way to describe it. Pasty, sickly white, bags under his eyes, his hair a right mess (more than usual, that is). His eyes are glazed over as if he has the flu, and splashing water on his face and rubbing them only makes his head hurt. But it also makes him recall... something. Voices, was it? _Bilbo, Bilbo!_

He groans into his hands and stares at himself through his fingers plastered across his face. There's something he's missing. There's something he should be thinking about, should be remembering, should be _afraid of,_ even now... Is there?

_Bilbo!_

They'd been in the middle of listening to Thrain and Bifur tell yet another story from their youth, laughing vigorously... No, no, after that. Fridda putting at least a ton of files on the table all at once. The Duchess with her beautiful silver glasses reading through this or that, Bard and Gandalf exchanging curious looks, Bofur, who had been Bilbo's one solace in all that commotion, shrugging or grinning whenever Bilbo looked his way...

Yes, all those details are there, but they're not _important._

The look on Thrain's face when they first started talking about The Pattern. Yes, that. Bofur having to calm his uncle down when he got too riled up about Bundushar, and Fridda helping her grandmother quickly sift through the different files from the Archives, fingers hovering over newspaper articles dating as far back as twenty years...

_Moria Strikes Gold! Is forming a conglomerate at the brink of a millenium the right way to go?_

Ah yes, the articles. At some point, they'd started writing the titles down. Somebody thought it would be good to draft a timeline, and they'd ended up with what to Bilbo's eyes looked a lot like one of those drawing boards from the movies, the ones belonging to the obsessed detectives, with the pins and colorful threads interconnecting the important tidbits. Only here, it had been less pins and threads, and more mugs of coffee serving as paperweights, and biscuit crumbs getting in the way. But it had been there nevertheless – the story. The Pattern.

-

“Hand me that one on the export rates, darling, will you?”

Fridda sat next to Bilbo, and now leaned over him to search in a pile of files halfway across the table to comply with her grandmother's wish.

“ _Kigh, amaduh_ ,” Bard, a sea of documents away, turned to Bifur, and Bilbo didn't know whether he should devote his efforts to translating that particular conversation, or to that plate of biscuits over there.

Gandalf was on his phone again. How long had they been here? Hours, surely.

“Can I help?” he asked Fridda, out of politeness more than actual interest, and she sighed.

“I don't know. This makes very little sense. What are you looking for, Nana?”

“Not sure yet,” the Duchess replied curtly, “if I'm right, there should be something in here about that firm that Bundushar had set up before Moria, you know, the one I told you about?”

Fridda groaned, half in agreement half in confusion, and Bilbo shared that sentiment. They'd been getting nowhere so far – they were mostly incapable of concentrating on one thing all of them together, that was the problem. Far too often, Bifur or Thrain, or both of them at once, would lose themselves in reminiscing. Far too often, Gandalf, who'd seemed to be capable of steering that whole shebang somewhere at the beginning, has had to excuse himself to take a call. Bilbo himself felt rather useless, surrounded by miles of articles in Khuzdul he could only understand about three quarters of – definitely not as much as he'd fancy.

He reached for another file without a label – he'd been tasked to look through those for the time being, until they could come up with some sort of system. In a hundred years, maybe.

“Oh, this is in English!” he exclaimed happily to no one in particular – nobody was paying much attention to him anyway.

This file was thicker than the rest, and it soon became obvious why – it contained... yes, more newspaper articles, but also...

“Oh boy... eh, Gandalf?” Bilbo peeped as he scanned the unusual layout of the documents before him, but the man stood away from the group again, chattering in... French, is it now?, and so Bilbo simply adjusted his glasses and returned to his reading.

They were... what do they call them? Personal files? Or... bits and pieces of them, anyway. Names Bilbo didn't recognize, but most of them seemed to have been journalists back in the eighties, which he concluded from the articles joining each person and carrying their name. Khuzdul names, mostly, but... what did the BBC have to do with his? Oh, foreign informants, yes, that made sense...

Bilbo sipped on his tea and read up on shady business deals, and predictions of war, and industrial espionage, all of it sounding a bit far-fetched from where he was sitting, a bit like the plot of a book one might read in an Economical History class, or of one of those movies with a lot of gray suits and smoking indoors that always would lull him to sleep.

He choked on his Darjeeling a bit when he turned a page and saw the name Laura Ibindikhel at the top of it, accompanied by a photo of the woman. She was striking, just like Bard had described, and the man himself certainly took after her – the piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones, dark hair and strong determined eyebrows were all there, softer but very recognizable...

“Bard, here's something about your mother!” Bilbo called, but the journalist merely waved him off – he seemed to be entirely engrossed in what must have been an unusually coherent story from Bifur. Bilbo shrugged and returned to the file.

_'Uncovering the Invisible'. 'Beyond Borders – the Incredible Story of One Woman Breaching Boundaries'. 'Out On Top – is Laura Ibindikhel's career in jeopardy, or is it only just beginning?' 'Laura Ibindikhel Charged!' - The infamous journalist (31), hot on the trail that she believes might lead her to uncovering what she has described as 'the biggest conspiracy ever to fester in the country of Erebor', has been charged with breaking and entering, based on the accusations of prominent businessman Smaug Bundushar himself. Bundushar, a rising star in the Alpine kingdom himself, has had his issues with Ibindikhel seemingly ever since he announced the creation of The Moria Conglomerate-'_

“Bard!” Bilbo called again, his eyes still glued to the document, “you need to see this!”

“Not now, Bilbo.”

“But...”

_'Charges Vanished! Last week, Laura Ibindikhel emerged free from what was believed to be an end-of-a-career case against her. The accusations made by the businessman Bundushar were retracted under dubious circumstances, and speculations about foreign intervention in favor of Ibindikhel have already arisen. The journalist's ties to the British Intelligence outpost in Erebor's capital Azanulbizar are a matter of public knowledge, and it is only a matter of time before-'_

“Bard, honestly!” Bilbo exclaimed, but when he saw that the journalist was paying no attention to him whatsoever, he rose from his seat and walked around the table to him.

“I'm very sorry to interrupt, really, excuse me,” he babbled, “but you simply need to see this. Read it.”

He slapped the file opened on the page with Bard's mother's face on the table in front of the man, and did his very best to withstand the glare from both him and Bifur, which would have be much more menacing if the man didn't have biscuit crumbs in his mustache.

“Read this,” he said simply, and Bard frowned at him, but complied.

“What do we have here?”

That was Gandalf, leaning over Bilbo to see.

“There's a whole file about Bard's mother,” Bilbo explained excitedly, and Bifur added something in Khuzdul he didn't quite catch.

“I don't get this,” Bard said slowly, “foreign intervention? Ties to the British Intelligence outpost? This makes her sound like some sort of a spy or something – Doctor Grey? Is there something you're not telling me?”

Gandalf was all but scowling, so deep in thought he almost didn't register Bard at first.

“Hm? I – well. I'm not sure. Let me make a call...”

And he disappeared before they could stop him, marched away. Bilbo sat down next to Bard.

“This mentions the Moria Conglomerate,” he pointed out, “what do you think...”

“I don't know,” Bard mumbled, “I really don't know.”

“What's that?” the Duchess demanded from across the table, and Bofur and Bombur crowded around their uncle to peek as well, and so Bard read the article out loud for everyone to hear, Bofur translating it with surprising speed to Bifur as they went.

And there was more. So much more. For some reason, Bard's mother had picked out Bundushar as her prime target all those years ago, and seemed to have been absolutely adamant to find any damning evidence possible. Over the years leading up to the revolution, she'd accused Bundushar of siphoning foreign funds, falsifying evidence, lying in court, even conspiracy to commit murder... Anything to get at him, from every angle possible.

Bard fished out some articles actually written by her, not about her, and acted like it was all starting to make so much sense, while Bilbo just sat there with papers piling up in front of him, increasingly more lost. Gandalf returned then, and his sweeping declaration hardly shed any light on the whole matter, but maybe that was just Bilbo, failing to grasp the bigger picture still.

“I just spoke with someone back home,” Gandalf said, winking at Bilbo for some reason, “and it's as I'd predicted – Laura Ibindikhel worked as an informant for us since the early eighties until her untimely demise.”

“'Us' meaning...?” Bard demanded.

“The MI6.”

Bilbo thought he could almost hear the whole room hold its breath. He would very much like to be as shocked as everyone else, but he still couldn't really make sense of it all.

“So... what?” he asked, going by what his mother had taught him (don't hesitate to ask if you don't know, it's better than sitting around acting like you do), “she was a spy?”

“Very crudely put, but yes,” Gandalf replied, “and Bundushar was her assignment, or so it seems. In time, I might be able to pull some records about her from our own archives...”

He walked off just like that, fishing out his phone yet again and typing something in, and Bard rose from his seat abruptly, marching over to Fridda and her grandmother, while Bifur started muttering to his nephews... It was all becoming a chaos once again, and Bilbo didn't know what to do, but thankfully, the Duchess herself motioned him over, and so he obeyed, wheeling Thrain over as well.

“Professor, in your conversation, Bundushar assumed you were a spy, correct?” the stern woman asked him directly, and Bilbo nodded uneasily.

“Ah... yes. Seemed convinced all of... this,” a vague gesture describing his bundle of personal quirks and anxieties, “was just an act.”

“Hmm,” the Duchess commented, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“It's because he's dealt with spies before,” Bard explained, never taking his eyes off the files spread out before him.

“...Alright?” Bilbo shrugged, trying to see what they're seeing, and Fridda was the one to take pity on him.

“This is all rumors going back to the time long before the revolution, but there was this whole big whoop about it being started with foreign intervention,” she explained, “Bundushar is regarded as the main culprit even now, of course, but nothing was ever proven. He disappeared before anyone could pin him down, and because his biggest opposition – that's Laura Ibindikhel – had been gone by then, there was no one here to bring him to court. Which is why he could return all these years later and act like nothing ever happened. But yes, rumor had it that he wasn't hiding from Erebor itself, but from... well, someone else. Mrs' Ibindikhel's involvement with the British sort of confirms that.”

But that was not the whole story. Not even the beginning of it, really, and Bilbo was increasingly more in awe as it started taking shape in front of him. He'd read what he could about the revolution, of course, and there was that one month Bard had spent forwarding him all sorts of articles and interviews with Bundushar, but it turned out he really only knew a very tiny portion of it all. He would have to write it down to remember all the names and happenstances, but he was occupied elsewhere.

The three – Thrain, Bifur and the Duchess of Khazad – had known nothing of their friend's work for the MI6, that much became clear rather quickly. Duchess Elsa, of the soundest mind out of the three of them, remembered Laura leaving a book unfinished before she died. Bifur recalled, if a bit fragmented, a conversation he'd had with her where she told him to be extremely careful going against the Moria Conglomerate, if even by agreeing to work for that one new mining company... Thrain knew she had been very interested in some sort of foundation her and the young Princess Dís wanted to start. All in all, they spent a lot of time speculating, Bilbo and Fridda and Bofur writing down dates and names, and Bilbo knew they're trying to find a pattern...

The Pattern. A breakthrough happened... not in the way Bilbo would have expected it to happen. Not with one sentence, with one piece of information surfacing seemingly out of nowhere, but rather with creating a painstakingly interwoven patchwork of facts. The Moria Conglomerate growing stronger quietly, almost in secret, while the Old King grew sicker, less and less capable of performing his duties accordingly. Bundushar disposing of the opposition quickly while no one was looking, getting away with it because no one was looking. The country had been set ablaze by its own ruler, whose mind had in turn been set ablaze by an illness no one could have predicted or stopped, and a large company swallowing smaller ones like a shark swallowing colorful little reef fish was of no concern to anybody at that time.

The delusional monarch hardly added to peace, seeing spies and liars everywhere but in the right place. And that was exactly what Bundushar had wanted. Making it look like he and his company were the ones supporting the Crown, all the while feeding the rot that was slowly consuming it from the inside out. Laura Ibindikhel had known this, but before she could do anything about it, Bundushar made sure that she, too, was discredited. She died before the revolution even started, chewed down and disgraced by a series of court processes performed by people almost certainly working for Bundushar.

Bilbo listened to all this, and wondered how on earth the country even survived. How on earth Thorin managed to resurrect it, breathe life into something so ill. But a couple of gallons of tea later, it turned out that while he did an enormous, impressive amount of work on the country, he would have gotten nowhere without his sister. She had been the only one who believed Laura Ibindikhel until the day the journalist died, and she had been the one to chase Bundushar out of the country. And no one knew. With the police rendered useless, preoccupied with handling the public unrest rather than any conspiracies trying to destroy the country from within, Thrain had valiantly attempted to take matters into his own hands. But even he was soon deemed an enemy, by his own father no less. Still, he and his friends and colleagues, most of whom were sitting at the same table as Bilbo now, had done their very best to build a case against Bundushar, and Smaug in turn had done his very best to get rid of them one by one.

Duchess Elsa – at the time still with her husband by her side – was eventually forced to leave the country. A couple of people appeared in the old King's cross-hairs and were imprisoned. And after the staged assassination of Thrain, Bifur Abkhûz was all alone...

Little did they all know that the young Princess had been working on Laura Ibindikhel's instructions the whole time, and was in fact the one who'd helped people to stay alive. She'd made sure that Fridda's grandparents could emigrate safely, their destination kept carefully secret. She'd been the only one who knew that Train had survived, and she'd kept the secret to herself all those years, as had been the original plan. Her husband's mining company had been her triumph, her chance to stand against the Moria Conglomerate with something solid in her hands, but she, as many other people before her, had vastly underestimated Smaug Bundushar, and paid for it with her life.

Bilbo sat in his chair, his head spinning, and didn't know whether to cry or laugh – the facts laid out before them all, it seemed almost simple. Even though it sounded incredible, unbelievable, and frankly a bit unrealistic. Bilbo felt such ache for Thorin. Thorin, whose sister had helped him survive their losses, who had helped him rebuild a country from its ashes, who had carried with her a secret she could never tell him. They why's and what if's were of little importance, Bilbo knew. The Pattern had been revealed. Laura Ibindikhel was going to write a book about it – the manuscript was gone, or so everyone decided. She'd done a very good job of leaving her son out of it all, and Bilbo watched Bard's face throughout the night, the overwhelming disbelief, shock, pride upon learning what his mother had accomplished. He watched Bifur Abkhûz almost overwhelmed with emotion when it was proven that he'd been right all along, when the fragments of his memories were finally given shape, interconnected at along last. He watched Thrain moved to tears as the truth about his daughter finally surfaced. Him and Bilbo made a pact that night to tell Thorin everything as soon as possible.

And The Pattern had been just that. A pattern. Also the name of a file containing all the information and damning evidence Laura Ibindikhel had gathered on Bundushar, and that now lay somewhere deep within this or that dusty archive back in England, but that wasn't important. The stories were important – untold for a decade but still falling in place like the cogs in a clockwork, turning seamlessly. Bilbo didn't think he'd ever seen anything more amazing than that – a handful of people reliving history and rediscovering old truths and lies. He genuinely felt like a part of something grand that night, even though he had absolutely nothing to do with anything, at all. Wasn't even particularly helpful, let's be honest. But being there, witnessing it all, was more than he could ever hope to deserve.

He kept wondering if Thorin would take it similarly. He had been lied to, misled, withheld vital information from... But Bilbo no longer felt afraid about facing him. No, he felt like... he felt like he needed to be there for him, make sure he handled all these revelations well, or at all. He was almost eager that night, to tell him as soon as possible, and was delighted when Gandalf agreed with him for once. It was all... incredibly exhilarating, and Bilbo honestly believed it was all headed towards a bright, good finish line. They all made him believe it.

“I'll have someone pull Mrs' Ibindikhel's files from the archives back home,” Gandalf told him as they strode side by side, Bilbo headed to see the boys, his head still spinning a bit (would it ever stop?), “it might take a while, but I'm sure those will contain some of the final pieces of the puzzle. We already have the upper hand, Bilbo. It's only a matter of time before professionals take one look at this and extract from it all those bits of legally admissible information that we'll require to actually get rid of Bundushar officially. But he's as good as gone now, in no small part thanks to you.”

“Oh please,” Bilbo chuckled, feeling rather lightheaded, “I barely did anything. Survived being in the same room with the man a couple of times, that's all.”

“That's more than I ever should have asked of you, and yet you did it anyway. This is a debt I will never repay. But – ah, here's my exit. I'll talk to you soon!”

And Bilbo waved him off, watched him take a left and disappear around a corner, and continued forth himself. He faltered at the top of the stairwell that would take him one floor down and to the Princes' rooms, and he didn't even know why. Some... shift in the air. He listened for a while, but heard nothing but the faint buzz of the lights, the sort of heavy silence he'd gotten used to in the massive, majestic building.

He trotted down quickly, fishing out his phone and checking the time – almost midnight. He would just peek inside the boys' rooms quietly, see if they're asleep, and then return to everyone...

The first gunshot echoed seemingly the very second his soles touched the blue and golden carpet of the third floor, and he almost tripped. It wasn't loud, but he recognized it far too well, immediately remembering the attack on the Palace, and the muffled whiz of Dwalin's gun, reduced from the usual loud echoing slap to an almost bearable whistle by the silencer. It meant that the shooter couldn't be far, and did that come from ahead...? Bilbo hesitated for only a second before breaking into a run, heading for the Princes' quarters, against everything Dwalin had ever attempted to teach him. And of course he'd left his gun in his room again, and of course Tom and Bert would be there to protect the boys, and of course Bilbo was being absolutely foolish...

He thought he'd tripped at first, his legs betraying him and sending him flying. He saw a flicker of something, someone, in the hallway he was passing on his left, but that might have been the dim lights cheating him... He tried to get up – and hell, where did that pain come from? Stubbornly, thinking he must have landed at some very unfortunate angle, he tried to scramble to his feet... Cried out in genuine pain, and his brain finally caught up with his body. He pressed his hand to his hip, and it was as if he'd bypassed some sort of failsafe – the pain rushed into his head, wrapped its ghost claws around his senses, pushed all air out of his lungs, and he knew what he would see on his hand long before he managed to look at it. He couldn't feel the carpet beneath him, couldn't feel anything much beyond the pain quite literally becoming him, and he opened his mouth but couldn't be sure that any sound at all came out.

_Bilbo! Bilbo!_

That was probably him already losing his mind, and he opened his eyes, closed them, opened them again – no use. His vision had been reduced to blurs and dashes of color and glow, and his mouth filled with the taste of something incredibly bitter, and by the time someone's grip on his shoulder attempted to steady him in reality, he'd probably already been long gone.

-

He wakes up sinfully early, judging from the color of the patch of the sky visible outside the window, and he suffers from strong confusion momentarily before remembering – _really_ remembering – and letting a weak groan slip his lips, eyes closing, hand settling on his belly, still unused to the firmness of the bandages. The last thing he remembers from yesterday (was it yesterday? Maybe he's slept for a whole day again? Two?) is staring at his face in the mirror in the small bathroom over there, and he doesn't recall getting back to bed or falling asleep. Oh well.

He turns slowly to discover his phone on the nightstand, and it takes a lot of willpower to grab it, and a lot of adjusting to read the screen without his glasses. The date, October 8th, barely means anything to him, but the tiny 'Tue' underneath it calms him down. Yes, yesterday was Monday, and Gandalf was here, and...

His mind is flooded with memories that must have returned to him while he was sleeping, and he tastes that bitter copper he will now always associate with lying face down on a carpet in a hallway, unseeing eyes wide open... He clears his throat, finds it is unacceptably dry, and looks around for a glass of water, finds none. What was that about a button to hail the nurse whenever he needed?

Deciding he can probably allow himself to be a bit selfish, he uses that, and she is quick to arrive, complying with his needs and asking him a couple of easy questions about his state, which he answers to his best knowledge, quite proud of being able to talk coherently at all.

“Do you remember me telling you about the list of visitors we would need to compile, sir?” the nurse asks him as she readjusts his pillow and blanket, and when he nods faintly, she continues, “good. We'll do that after we've tried and gotten some solid food into you, alright? You should start getting hungry in no time. But we've gotten a call from your employer, asking about a possible visit of the boys you look after.”

“They're alright?” Bilbo breathes out.

“Of course they are,” the nurse smiles, “we got a call from a Mister Balin today – they seem quite adamant to see you, or so I'm told.”

Bilbo gapes at her a bit dazedly – is she only being very carefully discreet, or does she not know where he works? He decides to dismiss that until he's capable of thinking clear again.

“Ah... yes,” he mumbles, “that would be nice.”

“Only if you're really feeling up to it,” she tells him firmly, “we wouldn't want to upset your healing process.”

“Oh, no, no,” Bilbo tries to wave his hand, ends up barely lifting it off the sheets, “I'd love to see them. Really.”

 _Might make me feel a bit more alive, and less like a hollow shell,_ he thinks bitterly.

 

He spends the morning doing... nothing much, honestly. Receives texts from Fridda and Bard asking after his health – Gandalf has probably updated them. Valiantly switches the TV on and watches the news, but there's nothing – well, it's true that Smaug Bundushar has been officially charged with... yes, Gandalf was right, with _a lot_ of things, and that he's unreachable, and that ' _the journalist Bard Ibindikhel has announced that the decade-old work of his mother, Laura Ibindikhel, was what helped shed more light on Smaug Bundushar's wrongdoings'..._ Bilbo doesn't quite possess the mental capacity to translate the Khuzdul news yet, and so he browses the channels until he finds BBC World, and listens to incredibly boring stock market news and such, while outside the rain starts again, a gentle pitter-patter on the windowpanes.

'... _and on Saturday, the future of the fiscal union was discussed – what was originally a courtesy meeting called together by the Spanish monarchy, quickly transformed into a long-expected addressing of the topics the European Union has deemed secondary in the past. The Ereborean King's longstanding reservations towards what he's publicly called an institution on the brink of obsolescence before, are well known, and his stern policy of...'_

Bilbo stares at the screen almost breathlessly, his heart pounding – Thorin is shown sitting and walking and talking with the other politicians, easily the most imposing figure out of all of them, and Bilbo has almost forgotten about his trip abroad... Unthinking, he picks up his phone and squeezes it while Thorin and the President of France are shaking hands on-screen. Should Bilbo call him? Should he at least send a text...?

No, surely Thorin is incredibly busy right now – what must have he thought, arriving home only to learn of everything that had happened? Bilbo doesn't blame him for... not visiting, or something. Why would he? Surely he must be immensely confused, to say the least, and Bilbo can't exactly fault him for... doing whatever he's doing. Gandalf told him that Bilbo is awake, of course he did. And besides, Bilbo isn't quite sure it would be within his power to react accordingly if Thorin appeared here out of the blue...

His head only allows for so much worrying before it starts hurting again, but fortunately the nurse appears to administer a fresh dose of painkillers, as well as let Bilbo try and eat something. He's not hungry at all, but the porridge is surprisingly tasty, ' _all very healthy stuff, should get your bowel movements working properly at long last_ ',and he manages to eat a couple of spoonfuls of it. Momentarily strengthened by that, he compiles the list of approved visitors – not very long – and that in turn tires him enough so that he falls right back to sleep, assuring the nurse that it will be absolutely alright to wake him if someone comes visiting.

Which is exactly what he wakes up to – pleasant warmth, the faintest scent of fresh air after rain seeping in through the half-open window, and Fili and Kili. The first thing he sees when the door opens are two dark suits that manage to make him properly scared before he recognizes Bert and Tom, the boys' bodyguards – and after them, the Princes themselves come rushing in, alive, in matching coats, followed by, strangely enough, Bofur.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims, and before anyone can stop him, he climbs to sit on the edge of the bed, “are you alive?”

“I'm very much alive,” Bilbo chuckles, waving off the bodyguards' faint protests and taking Kili's hand in his, “what about you?”

“I'm fine!” Kili announces.

“That's good,” Bilbo smiles wearily, then, turning to the older Prince, “hello, Fili.”

“Hi... you're so white,” Fili observes almost cautiously.

“Yes, I'm a bit under the weather right now,” Bilbo attempts a grin.

“Bofur brought fruits!” Kili remembers, and the chauffeur steps forward.

“Hey,” he smiles at Bilbo, though his look is much more wary than that of the Princes, and he puts a paper bag on the nightstand, “compliments of Bombur and Mirjam. Oranges, grapes... ah, yes, and a couple of those cinnamon buns you like so much.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says earnestly, “...what are you doing here?”

“Bofur's our nanny!” Kili explains, and Fili rolls his eyes, while the chauffeur adds, “ _temporary_ nanny. I was graciously chosen to accompany the Princes here, since I was coming here anyway.”

“Can we see your Uncle now?” Kili asks.

“Maybe later,” Bofur sighs, shooting Bilbo a look that he can't quite decipher, “I'll go see him now and leave you two  _abrâlhîth_ here with your _actual_ nanny, how's that sound? I'll be back for them soon, Bilbo.”

 

“That's quite alright,” Bilbo smiles.

“Remember what the nurse said,” Bofur tells the Princes, “no straining the patient. Behave.”

And with that, he flicks Bilbo a quick mock-salute and disappears, along with Tom, who presumably goes to guard the door, while Bert stands vigilant by the window.

“So?” Bilbo demands clearly, firmly deciding to conceal any sign of weakness, “how's everything? I hope you didn't use me being away as an excuse not to finish your homework!”

“Fili helped me with Maths,” Kili says, and his older brother nods.

“Yeah, I did. But Bilbo, you were _shot._ What happened?”

“What happened?” Kili parrots.

“Well...” Bilbo starts, glancing a bit helplessly at Bert, whose gaze is as stern as impenetrable as ever, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and so Bilbo adds, “I don't actually know. We were having a sort of get-together with your grandfather...”

“Thrain told us,” Fili cuts him off, “and everybody's acting like nothing happened, but Thorin's been stomping around the Palace all angry, and there's even more guards than before, and I tried asking him, but he didn't really tell me anything that would explain it. Took me long enough to persuade him to let us see you.”

“ _Indâd_ is really mad,” Kili mutters, fingers hovering over the tubes around Bilbo's wrist – Bilbo bats his hand away gently, and sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“Oh boys,” he exhales, “I'm so sorry this is happening.”

“It's not like it's your fault,” Fili notes.

“Yeah, it's not your fault, Bilbo,” Kili adds, then, more eagerly, “when will you come back to the Palace?”

“Soon, I hope,” Bilbo replies earnestly, “they'd like to keep me here for a couple more days, I think.”

“Can we come visit you?” Kili asks.

“Whenever you want. But only if it doesn't interfere with schoolwork.”

“You should try taking a walk,” Fili supplies, and when Bilbo looks at him curiously, he adds, “I read about it. As soon as you're able, you should be walking around, so that your blood can...”

“Circulate.”

“Circulate properly, yeah.”

“Thank you, Fili. I'll try to do that.”

They sit around for a while longer, Kili sitting close enough so that Bilbo can wrap his arm around him while Fili flicks through the channels on the TV restlessly. Bilbo shares the grapes Bofur had brought for him with them, and they in turn promise to bring more food from the Palace. Bofur returns then, and it might have been twenty minutes or an hour, Bilbo genuinely can't tell. His friend requests a moment alone with him, and so Bilbo makes the Princes promise him to be good and not worry so much.

“Is there anything you want me to tell Thorin?” Fili asks when they're leaving, and Bilbo gapes at him a bit breathlessly for a moment, his heart beating almost painfully.

“I... I don't know,” he babbles, catching Bofur's worried gaze, “tell him... not to worry so much. And that I'm fine. ...And to water the plants.”

Fili smirks and Kili giggles, but all that achieves is making Bilbo feel that much worse. The boys wave him goodbye and leave – far too early for his liking – and Bofur lingers.

“How are you feeling?” he demands once they're alone.

“Oh, you know,” Bilbo smiles a tad bitterly, straining himself to sit up better, “stellar.”

“This is such a mess, Bilbo,” Bofur says earnestly, and when Bilbo takes a better look at him, he sees that some of his usual optimistic air has dissipated, and he looks... tired, to say the very least.

“Oh?” he peeps.

“Yes. The second His Majesty returned a learned about everything, the whole Palace fell into utter chaos – reminds me of that time after the attack. More guards, journalists everywhere, even the secret services... Dwalin's been firing people left and right. They won't tell _me_ anything, of course, but Bifur and Thrain have sort of decided to communicate through me, so... you know. Here I am.”

Bilbo stares at him wordlessly, and the emotional turmoil he's experiencing must show, because Bofur looks almost apologetic.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you,” he says, “I just wish they found Bundushar already, and this whole  _ikminrab_ ended.”

“I know,” Bilbo exhales raggedly, closing his eyes for a while he knows his friend will allow him, “me too.”

“Have you spoken with Grey?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Bilbo mutters, “I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't a dream. I don't think he knows much more than we do. He has a way of looking hopeful even when things are _really_ going south, but I wouldn't... I don't know. I don't.”

“Just get some rest,” Bofur says gently, and when Bilbo next opens his eyes, he looks almost sad, “you'll be fine in no time.”

But that's just it. Bilbo doesn't know what constitutes _fine_ anymore. He sleeps more than he stays awake, and he thinks it will remain like that for at least the next couple of days. And after that? When will he get to see Thorin again? So far everyone's been treating him like he's the victim in this, but everyone's not Balin, or Dwalin, or the King himself. Bilbo genuinely can't tell what the future will bring, and _sleeping on it_ is such a laughable concept, given the circumstances, but he does it anyway.

 

The grandest feat he achieves the next day is eating breakfast, and taking a walk. The nurse who's been taking care of him accompanies him in the elevator, and he assures her he _does not_ require a wheelchair, thank you very much, but that's of course a vast overestimation of his strength. A beautiful park stretches before him, trees decked in full autumn colors and the air smelling of wet earth, but despite the rather invigorating surroundings, he only makes it as far as the first of the benches lining the walkway before he has to sit down.

“I'll go fetch you that wheelchair now,” the nurse announces sternly, and he hasn't the power to argue with her, and so he simply drapes the borrowed hospital gown tighter around his shoulders, and watches a couple of blackbirds squabbling over something in the grass. He sees other patients, walking slowly or sitting like him, accompanied by nurses in white, but he doesn't spot Bifur. Not that he particularly wants to – what would he say to the man anyway?

The premises of the hospital are surrounded by a tall brick wall, and the building itself is smaller than he'd expect, red walls blanketed with ivy, old tall windows and the large main gate hinting at the true age of it all. _For the select few,_ Bilbo thinks, and it makes him vaguely nauseous to consider himself important enough to be here. _Look at where your life has led you._

Fortunately, the cold seeping into his joints soon overcomes any deep existential doubt, and he's quite grateful to slump into the wheelchair and return back inside – he is shown the communal living area, as well as the dining room and such, but he isn't interested in any of it, honestly. He sincerely hopes he won't be staying here long. He needs to return to the Palace, make _so many_ things right.

That night, he barely sleeps. Partially because his stomach has decided to start waking up properly and he's troubled by some unsavory bowel movements, but also because his surroundings succeed at making him particularly uneasy, a state of mind he really wishes he weren't so familiar with. It doesn't help that he remembers better now, remembers almost everything, and he tortures himself trying to come up with anything he – they might have missed, anything that would shed some light on what actually happened to him. The one thing that manages to lull him to an unsteady sleep at long last is a rerun of some ancient season of EastEnders that he discovers on this or that channel when the faintest stripe of pinkish light has begun coloring the horizon, and watches with a sort of detached disgust until his eyes close on his own.

The morning brings with it a weather that doesn't coincide with his mood in the least – far too bright, far too nice, far too warm. A bunch of flowers and well-wishes and more fruit are delivered to his room throughout the day, which is... swell, but he stares at the abundance of colors and feels powerfully underwhelmed with himself. He wonders if it's just the painkillers. He hopes it's just the painkillers, because as anxious as his default setting is, he's not usually this moody.

Fridda – and her grandmother, oddly enough – visit in the afternoon, recognizing his sour mood immediately and deciding to tackle it by putting him in that blasted wheelchair again and taking him out into fresh air. They both sound so apologetic, _so sorry this happened,_ and Bilbo smiles weakly as is his duty and assures them that he's fine. He knows Fridda knows better than that, sees it in her glances when she's not arguing with her grandmother about how the media are handling the whole thing or some such nonsense, but he doesn't have it in him to confide in her. What's there to confide anyway? That every breath he draws is so bitter he's worried his injury might be poisoning him in ways that have nothing to do with damaged internal organs? Later, he chews on the orange slices the nurse has carefully prepared for him, unseeing eyes pointed at the TV yet again, blind and deaf to whatever is going on there, and he thinks perhaps it would be best if he took after the royal family – they seem to be so good at handling these things. The boys seemed so unfazed, seeing him lying in a hospital bed. They're fighters, all of them, Bilbo knows. He also knows he's not one of them. He's not a Durin, capable of just trudging on, or whatever.

Fortunately, his previous sleepless night now takes its toll, and he falls asleep shortly after dinner, blissfully undisturbed by more visitors or calls... Only to snap awake when he hears a sound. His brain wakes him without actually registering it, but there's... yes, there's voices in the corridor outside his room, and the room is dark, entirely dark... Unwittingly, Bilbo grabs onto his blanket for safety, and strains his ears to hear better.

He recognizes the nurse's voice, rather riled up if he's guessing correctly, and... is that Dwalin?! Bilbo's heart now pounds almost painfully, and his throat is suddenly dry. They're clearly arguing, but he can't make out the words, and besides, translating Khuzdul through a door isn't one of his skills. Almost mindlessly, he switches on the small lamp on the nightstand, and glares at the door – and as if that's what the universe has been expecting, it clicks open, the nurse peeking in...

“What's going on?” Bilbo demands, sitting up.

“Oh – you're awake! Mister Baggins, I'm very sorry for this, but-”

“ _S_ _hândab tur_ _._ ”

 

It is indeed Dwalin, pushing past her, stern eyes scanning the inside of the room until they settle on Bilbo, who can't help it – he gulps nervously.

“Give us some privacy,” Dwalin barks at her, and her eyes widen.

“Sir, this patient is _recovering,_ ” she says sternly, “and I will _not_ have you interrupt that-”

Before any of them can so much as blink, the room fills with more security guards than Bilbo can count in his dizzy state of mind, and in strides Thorin, and he's not Bilbo's Thorin, at least not for the moment. He's the King who commands courtrooms and great palace halls with his presence alone, towering over everyone in the room, imposing and menacing, his features chiseled from stone, and his voice, though kind enough, is still entirely overwhelming as he turns to the poor nurse, saying: “Some privacy, _please._ ”

She gapes at him in baffled awe, probably trying to produce at least some words but failing, and at last, she gives up.

“Call on me if you need anything, sir,” she utters to Bilbo who is barely capable of nodding, and then she steers out of the room.

Bilbo opens his mouth, but knows he won't be able to say anything at all – Thorin looks at him then, and it's worse than any wound. His features don't shift a bit, no hint of the soft wrinkles around his eyes Bilbo is so used to seeing, his lips a thin, troubled line, eyes piercing but detached. He's _horrible._ Bilbo's gut twists, and he presses his lips together as well, a shudder dancing up his spine, leaving nothing but tense unease and ache in its wake.

“What is...” he starts, and has to clear his throat, dry and tight as it is, starting over again, “what's going on?”

Thorin's eyes slide off him and he strides to stand on the far side of the room, while Dwalin repositions his men with some imperceptible gesture, and they start scouring the room for... something.

“What are we looking for?” Bilbo asks, daring a glance at Thorin, who is now gazing out of the window and remains indifferent.

“How much did Grey tell you?” Dwalin asks him curtly, and it's far too obvious, the suspicion in his voice, the distrust.

“Oh, um... nothing much – about what?” Bilbo babbles, feeling more and more vulnerable.

“About what happened at the Palace – the night you were shot.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs shakily, “not really... enough, I think. I didn't – I didn't see who shot me, if that's what you're asking.”

“It's not what I'm asking,” Dwalin retorts, and then, after exchanging a short look with Thorin, who nods, he continues a bit less menacingly, “there was someone who knew all along what was going on – about your little... get-together.”

“That was...” Bilbo attempts, but Dwalin cuts him off, of course he does.

“I don't care. We'll talk about that later. Did anyone suggest any of Chief Surkaz's men would visit you at any point since you've been here?”

“Chief Surkaz's...? No, I don't... well, Gandalf said the police might want to ask me some questions eventually, I...”

“Did he now,” Dwalin grumbles, turning to Thorin, whose eyes flicker to him, but otherwise remain fixed on anywhere else but the inside of the room.

“ _Uzbad_ _,_ ” one of the four guards announces then, quietly, motioning Dwalin over to look behind the space heater below the window. Obviously, they must have found what they'd been looking for, because Dwalin nods to himself in as much satisfaction as his firm face can probably muster.

“Alright, here's what's going to happen,” he turns to Bilbo once he's shown Thorin whatever they're all seeing, and fiddled with it, “we have our suspicions about who the... _mole_ might be. So does Doctor Grey, that's why he's placed the bug that I've now disabled here.”

“A – a _bug?_ ” Bilbo gasps, trying to sit up, but his wound protests rather vehemently, and he winces though he tries his very best not to. Thorin glances at him, Bilbo's pain mirrored in his eyes so very clearly for the faintest moment, but it's gone faster than it came.

“A bug,” Dwalin nods, holding between his fingers something Bilbo can't hope to see properly without his glasses, “I'll replace it with my own, and I'll be leaving my men here to monitor the situation. If _anyone_ associated in _any way_ with the police comes to talk to you, I want you to have that conversation in this room, is that understood? In fact, have as many of your conversations in this room as possible. Clear?”

“Clear – no it's _not clear,_ ” Bilbo sputters, “would you mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”

“I don't know,” Dwalin snaps back, “will you extend the same courtesy in the future?”

Bilbo's mouth hangs open, but he's utterly incapable of replying to _that._ His wound is now throbbing, not exactly painfully, but like someone's repeatedly pressing something against his stomach, and he's beginning to feel a little nauseous.

“Dwalin,” Thorin speaks then, for the first time that night, still barely looking at Bilbo, “ _barakmâ_ _._ ”

 _Leave us._ Bilbo attempts to say something, but he really is not at his best today when it comes to forming actual words.

“Thorin _-_ ”

“Just go,” Thorin orders curtly, and holds Dwalin's gaze until his Head of Security relents and marches out of the room, his men following him. Bilbo gathers all his leftover strength and sits up properly, still clutching onto his blanket, like a drowning man grasping at straws. Once the door clicks shut, Thorin's shoulders sag, and it's as if he's been waiting for this precise moment to finally let go and crumble – it's discreet and barely noticeable for someone who doesn't know what to look for, just like everything else with him, but Bilbo has gotten far too good at this, and it's not a nice sight to his eyes.

“I'm sorry we barged in on you this late,” are his first words directed clearly at Bilbo, and they attempt to be so matter-of-fact it almost makes him shudder again, “but Dwalin insisted. Grey and him only ever put all the pieces together about two hours ago, and...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo peeps, isn't even sure he made any sound at all, but clearly it's enough to make the King quiet, “it's... alright.”

“Is it,” Thorin gazes at him, his voice but a ragged exhale.

He holds Bilbo's look though, and it's... well, it's almost more than Bilbo's weakened organism can handle.

“I'm... sorry,” he attempts, knowing how horribly inadequate it will sound long before the words even leave his mouth, “I never should have... I didn't know what to do, I – you can't even imagine h-how... how many times I wanted to... I should have told you. Everything. A long time ago.”

“I really wish you had.”

It's enough to steal his breath away – Thorin isn't angry so far, he just... is. Looks at Bilbo from the other side of the room, arms clasped behind his back, tall, rigid, his jaw clenched against the hurt. The distance between them seems unbridgeable now.

“I wasn't... I kept listening to Gandalf, for _whatever_ reason,” Bilbo continues, somehow feeling that even though he knows he will never find the right words, he must try anyway, “I don't know why. It's all... my damn fault for being so reckless all the time. I spent... I feel like I spent most of my time here _significantly_ out of my depth, and most of the time, I was too – too stupid to realize that, and I'm sorry. I don't ask – I can't ask for your, err, forgiveness-”

“My father tells me you helped him a great deal in setting everything up,” Thorin interrupts him as if he didn't hear a single word Bilbo just said, “and I'm also told that my _dead sister_ knew that he was alive all along, and didn't think to tell me. There are a lot of things a lot of people didn't think to tell me over the years. I'm getting used to it.”

He's bitter, and closing off faster than Bilbo can reach for him, and in so much pain, and Bilbo hates that he can see all of that so easily, recognize it with one look. The silence that follows is suffocating – Bilbo genuinely feels like he's running short of breath, and he realizes he's afraid. Afraid that if he doesn't say the right words now, he might never get the chance.

“I never wanted this,” Thorin says then, to his surprise, still as quiet as ever, “I... you know, for the longest time, I was under the impression that things would just... work out. Somehow managed to convince myself that I deserved a little bit of peace and quiet. That I deserved-”

 _You._ The ending of that sentence is there and Thorin doesn't even have to spell it out loud. Overwhelmed by the fact that Thorin still feels like the guilty one despite everything, Bilbo braves attempting to speak at least a bit sensibly again.

“You couldn't have known. You-”

“But I could have. You could have told me.”

 _That_ is a punch in the gut Bilbo deserves in its entirety, but it hurts no less for that.

“I know,” he hangs his head, looking at his own hands, tiny and thin and foreign on the crisp white linen.

His heart almost gives out when Thorin is suddenly standing near, his hand hovering, then closing over Bilbo's tentatively. There's very little comfort in the touch.

“You could have told me _something,_ ” the King almost whispers, truly vulnerable then, and Bilbo thinks looking up into his eyes might ruin him for good. He does it anyway.

“I'm sorry,” he says for what must be one too many times that night, but it's the only phrase that slips past his lips with relative ease – he thinks he could spend the rest of his life apologizing, if it did anything to improve the deep worried lines furrowing Thorin's brow.

“You got shot,” Thorin states then, as if it's an explanation, “I came back on Sunday to find my home under full security lockdown, and no one was able to tell me where you were at first. The boys asked after you first thing in the morning, because you weren't there to wake them up. And I had to tell them that I didn't know why this happened to you. If I'd known that you would end up like this, I never would have...”

His words fail him eventually, and he turns away, his hand brushing off Bilbo's, leaving behind a terrible cold. Bilbo has to physically clench his teeth against the onslaught of regret, and grief, and anger directed at himself, all at once, but it's nearly not enough in the next second, Thorin facing him again after having recomposed himself. Bilbo is faced with the Thorin behind the laboriously built wall of highly professional detachment yet again, and a part of him is glad Thorin is still somewhat capable of holding it together, while the other part of him wants to kick and scream and punch things.

“Dwalin will leave a number of his men here to protect you,” he declares firmly, turning a complete 180, “I'm told they won't be any intrusion. Please... keep the Palace updated on your recovery. The boys would have you return as soon as possible, of course, but... take your time.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo exhales, then, firmer and perhaps more pleading when the ground beneath his feet starts slipping away at dizzying speed, “Thorin.”

For a split second, he thinks he almost gets through, the King's lips parting as they look at each other, but then Dwalin knocks and invites himself in, shattering the moment.

“ _B_ _uzundâr_ _,_ ” he utters to Thorin, who nods absentmindedly.

Bilbo leans forward, but Thorin swallows whatever he might have been about to say, and he's gone, just like that, and Bilbo almost doesn't notice he's not alone in the room just yet.

“My people will be stationed outside your room during the nights, take shifts as members of the staff during the day,” Dwalin announces very matter-of-factly, “I'll be putting _this_ -” he shows Bilbo yet another tiny bug-thing, “right here, and I'll switch it on right before I leave. You should know that we are suspecting someone working for Chief Surkaz to also have been working with Bundushar all along. That's all I can tell you, because that's all we know. Hopefully, this will give us a better chance at finding that person. You just... stay put, and remember, I'll be hearing every single word from inside this room. Doctor Grey has been informed, so I don't care what conspiring you think you might want to do-”

“Dwalin, I never...” Bilbo rises to defend himself, however feebly, but of course he's no match for the Head of Security on his good days, and just an ant under his boot on his bad ones.

“Never what?” Dwalin hisses, “do you realize what you've _done?_ Do you know how much trouble – you know what, I'll save my breath. The King's orders are _not_ to fire you on the spot, and they're the orders I follow, no matter what I think personally.”

Bilbo finds his hands are trembling as he watches Dwalin place the bug behind the radiator – hardly surprising, that.

“Once you're back at the Palace, I'll need your signature on a couple of things, safety and such,” the Head of Security adds, a fraction more kindly.

“Of – of course.”

Dwalin grants him one last firm, highly scrutinizing look, and then he simply utters 'Sorry for the intrusion' and disappears as well, and Bilbo is left all alone in the room that suddenly seems entirely too big for just one little him. He tries to discern if tears, or any other kind of reaction, will come, but soon realizes he's just... empty. Emptier than he was before, aching, dull, helpless and lost. His wound announces itself when he gets up to go to the toilet after what might have been mere minutes or hours of staring into space, and he only ever falls asleep after he's assured the nurse that he's fine, and after she's administered some more painkillers. He doesn't dream, and it's a blessing.

 

The rest happens without him having any hand in it whatsoever. He spends precisely one day walking around like a hollow shell, just waiting for the winds to pick him up and blow him away, fortunately without any visitors who might have something to say about his self-pity, and then Dwalin's and Gandalf's plan – whatever the fresh hell it is – pays off. It is not any of Chief Surkaz's men who shows up late into the night almost exactly twenty four hours after Thorin and Dwalin did – it's Chief Surkaz himself. Bilbo never liked the man – his features ten times more worn and sharp than Dwalin's, tall and burly and bald, he just _radiates_ villainy, and that's of course saying something in the country of Azog K arkâl _and_ Smaug Bundushar. And really, if Bilbo has learned anything at all here, it's that people who look bad, usually _are_ bad. Case in point.

Having wrestled his way in in much the same way Dwalin had, Bilbo suspects, Surkaz is alone and tells Bilbo ' _I hope you understand why I came at this hour – it's only safe_ ', and that's enough for Bilbo to start fearing for his life. Or, more precisely, that should have been the moment Bilbo should have started fearing for his life. But it's like... it's like watching a grainy mobster movie unfold before his eyes, the last pieces of the pattern (and The Pattern) falling into place, and it should be exciting, relieving, disconcerting, _anything,_ but that would imply a capacity for strong feelings, which Bilbo simply doesn't possess anymore. It's like his brief talk with Thorin was some sort of culmination of all his worries, anxieties, mistakes and pain, and so he sits in his bed and watches entirely lifelessly as the man who has come to visit him is arrested before his very eyes, in _his_ hospital room, and all he can think of is _maybe I should really write a book about this._

He's entirely unfazed when Surkaz is taken away and in strides Gandalf, all but beaming, thanking Bilbo and declaring _a job well done._

“You planted a bug in my hospital room,” Bilbo mutters faintly. It's started to rain again.

“I did. So did the Palace, I might add. But it worked, didn't it?”

“Yes,” Bilbo sighs, and that's when he realizes it.

It's an epiphany, really. He really has no place here. He really doesn't have anything to do with whatever is going on – _was_ going on. He almost wants to congratulate Gandalf for making him believe for so long that he could make a difference. That he could _help,_ that he was important. He suspects – he's _dead certain –_ that he doesn't even know one hundredth of what's been going on in Operation Bring Down Sleazy Crime Lords Poorly Masquerading as Politicians and Businessmen, and that's... that's really, _really_ alright. Because he doesn't need to know. He doesn't want to know, and he doesn't have to be a part of this if he so chooses. It's liberating. It's so _silly._ He's sitting in a large foreign bed in a large foreign room, the man whom he _used to know_ pacing across it talking to someone in... _German_ now, and it's started to rain again, and for the first time in ages, Bilbo Baggins feels _free._ Free to make his own decisions, and though he knows with absolute clarity that he will suffer a great deal for it once his mind has cleared properly, he makes one right there and then – and that is to get as far away from bugged hospital rooms and double-crossing police officers and gunshot wounds as possible.

He doesn't know what it will cost him – correction, he can make a pretty good guess about what exactly it will cost him, but he refuses to for the moment – but he feels like he would be doing something _for himself,_ for _his own_ peace of mind, for the first time in god knows how long, and, well... that's good, right? For the lack of a better, more all-encompassing, more pathetic word.

“Gandalf,” he says once he's sure the man is paying at least a bit of attention to him again, “I want to go home.”

“Yes, yes, I think you'll be able to return to the Palace very soon. I'll arrange for a safe transport, don't worry-”

“No,” Bilbo cuts him off, and somehow, miraculously, that word is enough to gain Gandalf's attention, and so he adds, impressed that his voice doesn't waver, impressed that he doesn't feel more torn, more angry, more unsure, more _something,_ “I want to go _home._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so. I didn't actually want to write an essay about made-up history of a made-up country, but I felt like I owed it to you guys. Though I will completely understand if you tell me you've decided to skip that huge intimidating boring bulk of text and keep reading actual dialogues. The background is all a bit of a mess - though I promise it makes sense in my notes at least - but we're finally getting to the important part. And that is the fact that none of all those horribly tangled up conspiracy stories actually matter in the end, definitely not to Bilbo. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, long and difficult as it was, and I'll see you soon for the (ohgodohgodohgod) second-to-last one!


	25. Chapter 25

Saying goodbye is not a skill Bilbo ever thought to master. He's never had to, really. Mourning the passing of his mother doesn't count; the months leading up to it don't count. He wasn't ready then, it came all too fast, and he refused to accept it was happening until it... well, happened. He spent a long time after that working hard on forgiving himself – for chastising his mother for speaking about leaving him, for not visiting her in the hospital enough (even though he was there pretty much daily towards the end), for so many other things that had been completely natural, come to think of it.

But now... The second he returns to the Palace, still fragile and pale, still barely standing, a cane and an impressive amount of pills richer, he starts saying goodbye to it all. Every hallway he limps through, he thinks he might be seeing for the last time. He sits in the cafeteria in an awkwardly stilted position so as not to tug at his stitches, letting Mirjam and Bombur fuss about him, and looks on the room with the small armchairs and a low ceiling with an ache that has nothing to do with his ever-so-slowly healing wound. He gazes out of the window of his small apartment, stuck there for what might be hours when he first arrives, eyes sliding over the Palace premises, the trees in the park now sporting full autumn coats of rich reds and yellows and oranges, and he expects something, anything to change his mind.

He's not fit enough to _actually_ return to all his duties, and so he spends his time with the boys during their meals, mostly, and in the afternoons, helping with homework and such, and he thinks that maybe they will be the ones to... what? Be worth all this?

The more sensible part of him (a wonder he still has it after everything) tells him that it's only a matter of time – that he's in a bad place right now, and he'll settle, calm down, regain some peace of mind... It's not like he can pack his bags and leave on the last evening flight, anyway. He has to remain in the country, doesn't he? Yes, apparently he'll have to testify in court, even though Gandalf promised him otherwise. And it'll be some time before the stitches can be pulled out. And there's that polo match two weeks from now, to close the season, and the boys are looking forward to it so much...

But all of that only serves to add to his... let's call it a plan, for the lack of a better word. He doesn't actually _know_ if he'll ever be able to find his peace of mind here ever again, and that's the problem. It's one of those decisions one doesn't want to admit they already made the very first time they thought about them – a part of Bilbo knows with absolute certainty that he needs to get away, get away from all this (maybe not forever, he tells himself with a sort of fool's optimism sometimes) if he ever hopes to put his head straight ever again.

But for now, Gandalf is the only one who knows about all this, and Bilbo soon finds that saying goodbye to lifeless marble, and his favorite paintings, and lawns and bushes and statues, is much easier than saying goodbye to people.

Everybody tiptoes around him and treats him with unnecessary amounts of care, and he'd protest if he had it in him at all. Mirjam makes sure his lunches and dinners are always heated up for him, because he decides to eat after most of the staff has left, rather than withstand compassionate gazes and tentative questions. Fridda checks up on him regularly, making sure that he knows he can always talk, but he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he doesn't wish to talk, and so he always sounds overly cheerful when he speaks to her, which in turn makes him feel utterly nauseous. Bofur and Bombur take extra special care not to talk about the events that have led them all here, and they joke and laugh and bicker as usual, but more often than not, it's almost painfully stilted even to Bilbo's subdued senses.

He wants to tell them to please stop worrying about him and treat him like he deserves, but the general consensus between his friends, if unspoken, seems to be that he's done nothing wrong. He thinks he might snap soon and shout at someone about how they're mistaken, about how it's all his fault and _why do you refuse to see that, for crying out loud,_ but he'll need more of his strength back for that, and regaining that is an excruciatingly slow process.

The Princes are the only ones who don't change their behavior at all, and for that he's grateful, though he often has to parry Kili's interest in seeing his stitches, and Fili's demands to know what actually happened. But even with them, in the cozy, warm safety of their room – and perhaps even because of that – Bilbo's guilt is stronger than ever.

He sees very little of Balin, but the Chief of Staff sends him regular memos and everything, and pretty much treats him as any other employee of the Palace – but Bilbo so wants to sit with him and ask him why he wasn't fired, why he's still here, _has everyone been ordered to handle me like precious china?_

It takes three days of slowly and painfully finding his way around the Palace before he sees Thorin again. It's been more than a week in total since his abrupt visit in the middle of the night, and, well, the whole country has caught on fire since then, so Bilbo is actually surprised the King has more than ten seconds of free time in the midst of it.

Bilbo understands that it was rather valiant of Thorin to hold the elections in time still, even though his very own secret service has turned out to be rotten at the head, even though one of the parties has been discredited and its leaders are now facing harsh sentences... Bilbo understands that bringing Bundushar to justice is taking its toll on the balance of Erebor, and is actually more of a mess and less of a victory as of now. He also understands that Thorin stands by his policy of transparency, informing the public regularly of everything that is going on, displaying the true strength of the Crown by keeping the country upright and in check even in these trying times. All foreign media are on tenterhooks, shivering with the anticipation of the first slip-up – one would be enough to send tip the scales and send the country crumbling into dust, but Bilbo knows Thorin's steel grip on the situation will not waver, simply because it mustn't.

He also knows and understands that Thorin is operating in his full professional monarch-mode, which includes shutting off everything that life has swung his way recently, gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders against it because if he allows it near, it threatens to destroy him where he stands... And that's why Bilbo is almost shocked to be allowed to peek behind that facade chiseled out of stone.

He finds him in the Princes' quarters when he gets there that night to read them their bedtime story – he's greeted by a crowd of security guards at first, of course, and an unpleasant knot tightens itself in his gut. He opens his mouth to say something when he's faced with Dwalin, but the Head of Security merely motions Bilbo to go inside, clearly not in the mood for answering questions, or talking him at all for that matter.

And so Bilbo gulps hard, his grip on his cane tightening, and he enters the room, even though seemingly every cell in his body is screaming at him not to. Thorin is standing by Fili's table, both of them bent over this or that schoolbook, while Kili sits burrowed in blankets in his bed, flipping through the pages of his favorite magazine... The sight of them is so incredibly beautiful, so painfully domestic, so terrifyingly peaceful, that Bilbo almost turns on his heel and marches right out of there again.

But Kili notices him soon enough, of course he does.

“Bilbo!” he exclaims, “look, they're writing about how to build your own  _abùghud_ _..._ the, uh...”

 

“Kite,” Bilbo supplies absentmindedly and goes to sit on the boy's bed, grateful that his back is momentarily turned to the other occupants of the room.

“Sorry that my homework isn't done yet,” Fili says just as Bilbo manages to sit down almost painlessly, “but I needed help with these problems, and...”

“And I promised it, but didn't have time until now,” Thorin explains calmly, his expression utterly impenetrable – but perhaps that's just because Bilbo doesn't dare but glance at him.

“That's fine,” he manages, “all done now?”

“Yeah,” Fili nods, “let's read the story now – oh, sorry. _Âkmînruk zu,_ _Indâd._ ”

“You're very welcome,” Bilbo hears, but doesn't see, the faint smile in Thorin's answer, and he clears his throat to get rid of the nervous bitterness he tastes.

“Now, where is that book,” he declares,then, spotting the colorful cover of the fifth Artemis Fowlin Fili's bookshelf on the other side of the room, he sighs, “oh, there. Let me just...”

“No, sit!” Fili orders surprisingly quickly and strictly, and goes to fetch it himself.

Bilbo manages a small smile, and his gaze catches Thorin's for a fleeting moment – the King looks away faster than even Bilbo can, and that's enough to make him ache all over, really.

“Thank you,” he peeps when the older Prince hands him the book and sits down next to him.

He adjusts his glasses, his eyes never straying from the pages now as he flicks through them, searching for the bookmark. Chapter Ten awaits. But Thorin's presence is like added weight on Bilbo's senses, seemingly twisting the air in the whole room around him, and it's so very difficult to concentrate. Bilbo would fidget if he were capable and didn't risk pulling his stitches, probably.

“I can read,” Fili announces, then, with a touch of concern, “you don't look too good. I can do it.”

“No, you don't know how to do the voices!” Kili cries, and Bilbo gapes at them helplessly, Thorin still hovering at the edge of his vision (unfortunately not far enough to disappear in his blind spot)...

“Let him try,” he decides at last, gathering at least some of his leftover resolve, and Fili beams, taking the book from Bilbo.

Kili lets out a deep, long-suffering sigh, and curls up against Bilbo's side.

“Fine,” he declares, “but I get to try next time.”

What follows is possibly the most uncomfortable half hour Bilbo has experienced in his life, and that's counting getting shot and bleeding out on an expensive carpet not so far from here. His attention is divided between correcting Fili's pronunciation here and there, and the ghost of Thorin, who stands by the window on the far side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out of it, presumably lost in thought. The boys don't seem to mind his presence in the slightest, while Bilbo would rather be anywhere else than here...

That's precisely the problem, isn't it? Not so long ago, he would have considered a moment like this precious beyond measure, beautiful and calming, to be cherished... Now, all it makes him feel is a horrible bitter remorse, guilt like fish hooks jamming under his skin. How will he ever be able to get past this? How will he ever be able to function normally again? He's afraid that the answer hovering at the back of his mind – _you won't, ever –_ is the correct one.

Fili makes his way through the chapter impressively well, and even though Kili complains occasionally, he's dozing off in Bilbo's lap by the end of it. After ushering the older Prince to his own bed, Bilbo tucks Kili in with some hardship, then gets up with even more difficulty, and sees Thorin and Fili exchanging a couple of words, too quiet for him to hear. He leans on his cane, entirely unsure what he should do – running away from the situation would probably only end up in embarrassing himself, since he's not capable of anything faster than a walk.

Thorin and him meet by the door, Bilbo running a little short of breath at the closeness, and the King switches the lights off, and they wish the boys a good night, and walk out into the hallway side by side... Oh, his stitches be damned, Bilbo will be running away from this soon.

One pointed look at Dwalin that Bilbo pretends not to notice later, they are almost alone in the hallway, the guards hovering at either end of it, and Bilbo still doesn't have it in him to look Thorin in the eye.

“Well,” he clears his throat inexpertly, fingers tugging at the hems of his cardigan and pulling them lower, a nervous tick he's had as long as he's lived, he thinks, “I'll... be going. I think.”

“Can I walk with you?” comes a quiet question, without any hint of emotion in the King's voice yet, but still...

“I walk _really_ slowly these days,” Bilbo remarks, gaze darting Thorin's way just in time to see the faint flicker of what might perhaps under a good light be considered a somber smile.

“I know.”

And so they set off, and the distance from here to Bilbo's apartment now seems terrifyingly long. And he does, in fact, walk very slowly – couldn't speed up even if he tried, not after a day of telling himself _one more short walk certainly couldn't hurt_ over and over again.

“How are you feeling?” is inevitably what starts the conversation.

“Me?” Bilbo chuckles humorlessly, eyes barely ever straying from the hallway ahead, “I'm... alright. You know. Probably somewhat intoxicated, actually – Mirjam keeps brewing all these herbal teas for me. ...You?”

“Could use some herbal tea myself, I think,” comes a reply after a long, heavy, sore silence, “to tide me over the elections.”

Bilbo offers what he hopes is a compassionate half-sigh, half-chuckle, and silence reigns again. They're trying, Bilbo knows. Both of them. Rather hard, in fact, but they've barely looked each other in the eye since they met today, and half-hearted attempts at small talk won't be solving anything any time soon.

“Gandalf tells me they'll want me to testify,” he says the one thing even slightly pertaining to their issues that slides past his lips somewhat easily.

“In the hearing against Surkaz, I presume,” Thorin replies, and risking a sideways glance at him, Bilbo sees that he is gazing straight ahead determinedly, jaw set tight.

“I think so, yes. It's all very... unclear. They tell me some of the hearings can't take place before...?”

“Well, in light of all the recently resurfaced information, we can't exactly be sure if all of the judges are a hundred percent...”

“I see.”

“So after we've dealt with that – found someone trustworthy. Soon, I hope.”

_Soon, I hope._ Unfinished sentences and all the words they'd _really_ like to say tugging at the fraying outlines of their conversation with more and more intensity. Lovely. How does one ever fix this, really?

Bilbo braces himself for the staircase ahead, the task made somewhat easier when he realizes it might very well be the least painful thing he'll experience in the immediate future anyway, but...

“Don't you think... I mean, shouldn't you take the elevator?”

The genuine concern in Thorin's voice stops Bilbo dead in his tracks, and he has to look at him then, at long last. Back gazes a calm fractured by something Bilbo can't quite put a name to. Regret, maybe.

“I do take it whenever I go upstairs,” he supplies what is a surprisingly normal sentence given the circumstances, and then, when Thorin opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, Bilbo even manages a smile, adding, if a bit strained, “don't worry. It's only good for me, I think.”

Thorin hmph's, and it's such a familiar and lovely noise that Bilbo's smile stretches into a genuine one, and he turns away quickly, lest he gets too caught up in the moment. His descent is obviously much more laborious than he lets on, but he'd sooner die than let Thorin know he's having any trouble whatsoever – the King is always by his side, and Bilbo feels guilty even for that, for making him walk so slow, dear god.

“This could take an hour, you know,” he grumbles.

“I have time.”

“Do you really? Aren't the elections tomorrow?”

“Well, yes. Tomorrow.”

“The way things are going, you might actually be stuck here until then – oh _bugger._ ”

His not-yet-so-stellar balance betrays him then, and he tumbles forward after taking one wrong step – he's forced to level it by stepping on his bad foot, and his hip acts up accordingly, an almost accusatory sharp pang of pain shooting up his side and reminding him how much of a fool he's being. But Thorin's hand is there on his arm to steady him, quick and solid, and doesn't let go even when Bilbo gapes at him, somewhat dumbfounded.

“Really,” the King remarks dryly, “the elevators are there for a reason.”

Bilbo makes a noncommittal _oh pfft_ noise, waving it off and regaining his balance, but Thorin's hand remains – Bilbo feels the heat rising in his cheeks, and if they don't get a move on soon, they might end up in a territory Bilbo is entirely unprepared for...

“I hate seeing you like this.”

Oh, apparently they are already in it.

“I'm fine, I'm alright, really,” Bilbo babbles, “I'm just not used to walking with a cane, you know, obviously...”

“I can't help but think that this is all-”

“If you say _your fault_ ,” Bilbo interrupts him sternly, “I think I might find enough strength to whack you with the cane, you know.”

But Thorin's gaze is humorless, and his hand slides off Bilbo's arm ever so slowly, and he actually looks in pain as he hangs his head... oh, this is _wonderful._ Amazing. God dammit. Under no circumstances did Bilbo want to end up here, right now, not standing on a stairwell, with a handful of bodyguards and a painting of this or that important monarch keeping them company.

“Yes, well,” Thorin says heavily, “you did get shot in my home. Which was supposed to be the safest place on Earth, or so they tell me. Proven wrong _twice_ now.”

“Thorin...”

“I'm sorry, Bilbo. I'm sorry this happened to you, and I don't know what I could have done to stop it.”

Bilbo's hand flies to Thorin before he can really stop himself, and it has the desired effect – shocks the King enough to look at him.

“Nothing,” Bilbo tells him firmly, “you do realize that's the point, right? You _didn't know._ I should be the one apologizing to you, for crying out loud. I don't... I can't say why I even decided to believe them when they told me you'd be better off not knowing. I'm – I'm impressed every day that you don't just... I don't know, crumble into dust what with everything that's been hauled at you. _I'm_ sorry, for lying to you, and for putting everyone in danger, and for not thinking straight, I...”

Fortunately, Bilbo's voice dies off on its own, and he's left drained dry. Thorin and him are now standing very close, Bilbo's hand still gripping the King's wrist though perhaps either of them barely realize it, and maybe this is the one right way to go about this. Intimacy at the least expected moments.

But Bilbo is barely standing now. He feels the same way he felt when he first really woke up in the hospital – feeble and in pain, his throat dry, the taste in his mouth bitter, his wound weighing him down so that he's barely able to breathe. There's no relief in sight.

“You know,” he mutters hoarsely, eyes darting to the ground, “I actually thought... ha, I actually thought I was helping you.”

A soft broken exhale comes from Thorin, and his fingers find Bilbo's, both his hands encompassing them.

“But you did.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but his resolve only goes as far as Thorin's face – the underlying hurt is so apparent in his eyes, his smile with the saddest edge.

“You did help me,” the King mumbles, almost whispers, “without you, I'd – I never would have lasted. You brought my nephews back to me. You made me believe in – you made me hope for things I never thought I could afford to have again, do you understand?”

Bilbo thinks he might cry with how unfair all of this is. Even after everything they've been through, Thorin still believes that Bilbo was _good_ for him, and, well...

“I was selfish,” he manages, ragged but resolute, his hand sliding out of Thorin's grasp and settling on his cane, because one arm is suddenly not enough to support his weight, “you kept reminding me from the start that I wasn't hired as this or that... what was it, a family therapist? And all those other things... You were right. But for the longest time, I thought I could be all of them. Somehow. That I was actually _enough._ God, I'm impressed you didn't actually fire me when I first opened my mouth.”

“I was this close,” Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo knows he's trying to steer the conversation back out of murky waters, but it's too late for that.

“You should have,” he says simply, and even though Thorin's clenched jaw betrays his nasty shock, Bilbo knows he's far past backing down now.

“You never should have given me the time to screw everything up the way I did.”

“You didn't-”

“Of course I did. Look at us. None of this would have happened if I didn't at some point get it in my head that I was good enough for you.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin all but snaps, his hand squeezing Bilbo's shoulder more firmly now, forcing him to look up, but they're obviously both equally horrible at actually saying what they want to say, because Thorin simply glares at him, unable to continue. There's something of the old Thorin in him now, from the early days when Bilbo barely knew him and the King barely knew his nephews, the anger bubbling up to the surface. Once again, Bilbo has overstepped boundaries without even giving them a passing notice, but this time, he knows he must continue on this path. He must.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, dully now, “you know I'm right.”

Thorin's glare is all but fiery now, and for a moment he looks like he might snap, or shout, or kiss him, but then the ferocious light in his eyes just... dies. His shoulders slump, and his grip disappears, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks against whatever is threatening to overwhelm him. He takes a step back, inhaling deeply and squaring his shoulders, glaring at Bilbo still, but without any particular strength now.

“I never...” he tries, but has to start all over again when his voice comes out as nothing more than a torn, quiet exhale, “I never stopped to consider what I was... dragging you along into, I thought...”

“Thought I would handle it better?” Bilbo supplies with a bitter hint of a smile, “don't worry about it, so did I.”

 

He's not sure how he made it from that staircase all the way to his room, or the shower, or his bed for that matter. He's not really sure how he makes it _anywhere_ from that point forward. Hauls his largely uncooperative body through hallways upon hallways, functioning on a very exhausted, very unreliable autopilot. The elections are won the next day – Dain's party wins, just so, and Bilbo sits among the cheering people in the cafeteria and their excitement and laughter are nothing but background noise to him.

Soon enough, the media are all talking about how good it was, that the win was so close – how the Crown retains its integrity even in these trying times, but not without obvious hard work. ' _Of course in light of recent events, we must ask ourselves if the elections would have had a much different outcome had the condemning information about the monarchy_ _'s_ _strongest opponent not surfaced at such a convenient time..._ '

The answer everyone chooses is no. Who cares, really? The elections are over, the country has won well-known stability for another five years, when one looks at it from a convenient angle, nothing much has really changed – the boat swayed in very dangerous waters for a while, but the storm was evaded before it could blow holes into the hull. The press is still gearing up to deal with the upcoming court hearings, Bundushar is still missing, on the run, whatever – but Bilbo goes into the city the day after the elections, for the first time since he's been shot, and he sees people swarming the streets as usual. Hurrying here and there, going about their business, buying groceries and biking to work and walking dogs – he realizes that that's it. That's it – people move on. People get excited very briefly, sit on the edge of their seats, and then when they are offered a feasible outcome, they are quick to return to their everyday normalcy. Why wouldn't they? What use is there lingering in the past? Bilbo sits in one of the coffee shops Fridda has introduced to him over the months of his stay here, one of his favorites, and waits for her, gazing out onto the street, and he feels like he's the only one who didn't get the memo. Like he's suspended in time while everyone else hurries on. God, he really hopes a time will come when he will remember this and lament about how pathetic he was – he hopes it will come soon.

Even Fridda, bright and lovely and very concerned for him, doesn't seem to be able to jolt him out of his rut. She asks him how he's doing, how the boys are doing, they discuss politics and the idea of peace, and he can spot the lingering suspicion behind her eyes very well, but he never finds the courage to talk about what he really wants to talk about.

He's been a fool a lot of times in the past, hoping for a lot of different foolish things. His mother would tell him to stop wasting time wallowing in hopes, and get up off his bum and go make them a reality. But oh, even getting up off his bum is so much work these days.

“Why do you think I wasn't fired?” he mumbles in between stabbing his disgustingly healthy yoghurt-and-assorted-fruits mix with his fork somewhat weakly, and he knows Fridda looks at him, her gaze piercing and long before she answers, but all he can offer back is a fleeting glance.

“ _This_ is what you worry about?” she wonders gently, and he raises his eyebrow.

“Well, yes,” he sighs, “I mean, after everything...”

“ _After everything,_ ” she cuts him off, “I'm sure everyone's just glad that you're alive. _He's_ glad that you're alive.”

Bilbo gazes at her dully, hoping that her compassionate face will yield some answers. But then again, perhaps he really won't be getting any unless they're his own.

“I want to go back to England.”

She doesn't react how he expects her to, and he should probably be grateful for that – no horrified gasps and ' _don't be ridiculous_ 'es. Her eyes do widen in shock, but she merely crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back in her chair.

“Why?”

“I don't – look, I don't know when it occurred to me. But I remember sitting in my hospital bed, and all those men came pouring in arresting Surkaz, and I – I remember thinking _this is so much more than I signed up for._ And I used to be okay with bearing more than I signed up for, because it used to include mostly, you know, sneaking the boys out of the Palace, and, and speaking up to a King. _That_ was fun, and I think I could spend the rest of my life like that. _This_ is life threats, and guns, and... what did Bard call it? _The espionage story of the century?_ I don't... I really don't know how to handle all that.”

“But you've been handling it so well,” she notes, and he only ever realizes how quiet and subdued his own voice was when she speaks up.

“I've been handling precisely nothing,” he counters faintly, and when she frowns, he hastens to add, forcing at least some strength back into his voice, “look, I don't... know. I don't... I just know I need to get away from all this. For a while, maybe, you know? Not for good. Just temporarily.”

She scrutinizes him carefully.

“Am I the first one you're telling this?” she asks at last, and when he nods, she sighs heavily.

“You know I won't presume to guess what's best for you. That's for you to decide. So please don't feel like I'm guilt-tripping you into anything when I ask you this – what about the boys? What about,” the way she takes a cautious look around their surroundings almost makes him chuckle fondly, because she still cares so much about whatever secrecy she thinks they deserve, “the King?”

He takes his time before he answers, sipping on his iced tea. It's still an incredible amount of work, transmuting his thoughts into words that are actually good enough to describe them.

“Sometimes I think they'll be enough – the boys,” he starts somewhat clumsily, “and they're... they're well worth this whole ordeal on any given day, of course. It's just that... even that is twisted now. I just can't help feeling _so_ guilty everywhere I go in the Palace these days. And I could – I suppose I could spend the rest of my days correcting Fili's grammar homework and teaching Kili how to paint different animals, but...”

That's where it is – all the emotion left within him. Imagining leaving the two Princes behind, imagining saying goodbye to everything they've managed to build between them, imagining not seeing them every day and not being there to watch them grow, all of that is enough to hurt him more than any gunshot wound ever could. But still.

“They don't even know the whole scope of things, you know,” he admits very quietly, “I haven't... I haven't sat them down and told them the whole story yet. And they keep asking, they do. If I don't do it soon, I think Fili might sneak up on the King in the middle of a meeting just to get it out of him, I...”

She smiles softly as he chuckles.

“They deserve to know,” Bilbo decides.

“Of course they do. But you won't be... signing a death wish by telling them, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo scoffs, “but I feel like... I'm pretty sure that every conversation I've had since I – since I woke up, has led somewhere terrible. I never actually meant to be so depressing, and start talking about leaving, you know. I'm sorry. God, forget I said anything. See? I can't – I can't bum them out like this. Fili has a big Maths test coming up, for crying out loud!”

Oh, he used to be so good at introducing lighter tones into conversation. Not so much anymore – Fridda is still frowning at him.

“Just try talking to them,” she tells him.

“I will. I have to. Yes.”

“As for the second part of my question...”

“Which was?”

“What about the King?”

He gapes at her. Summoning nothing but slightly clumsy words when it comes to talking about the Princes is one thing, but Thorin? What about him? How does Bilbo describe that he thinks it's better if he keeps his distance? That a small part of him still hopes that they might be able to figure things out like that, without actually talking about them? That maybe, if they're lucky, all they both need is space and time? That maybe they'll soon be able to spend some time in the same room without feeling utterly horrible? That all of that will sort of just... happen, somehow, along the way? He shrugs. Impales a strawberry with his fork, glares at it instead of eating it.

“I hoped...” he starts, gives up even before he figures out what the end of that sentence might be.

“He _didn't_ fire you for a reason, you know,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“Have you two even talked since... you know?”

“Oh, we talked.”

“And?”

“And as I recall, the last thing I told him was that I wasn't... _good enough_ for him.”

She lets out something between a ragged sigh and a disbelieving gasp.

“Oh, _Bilbo._ ”

“I know,” he groans, giving in to the sudden urge to stuff his mouth, which is why his next words are a lot more muffled than desperate, really, “I honestly don't seem to have any control over what I say these days. I don't... I don't know how to talk to him.”

Admitting that hurts – he fixes that with more yoghurt, stuffing it on top of the pain until it disappears back down his throat and dissolves, momentarily at least.

“You know what,” she sighs, still eying him highly displeased and concerned, “as much as I don't want to say this, you might be right.”

“About?”

“You do need to get away from all this.”

Bilbo stares, a bit taken aback – but then again that's what Fridda does. Complete honesty. If he wanted a friend who would go easy on him in this, he should have talked to Bofur, maybe. Oh, grand, he's going to have to tell Bofur now, and he fears he knows how that conversation's going to go. Fridda won't offer useless reassurances, she won't tell him to _please just think about this, don't go,_ and they both know it's actually easier on him like that, in the end. He's feeling enough guilt as it is, he doesn't need to add onto the pile by feeling bad about the decisions he makes in favor of his well-being...

So that's it? Oddly enough, he feels strangely invigorated after meeting with her. As far as invigorated goes in his state, of course. He remembers very distinctly the days when the sight of the cobblestones in the vast square in front the main gate of the _Hurmulkezer_ glistening after a short shower, and the chestnuts bowing their branches over them, was his favorite thing to look at, when it filled him with comfort and familiarity and a sense of belonging. Hell, he remembers the _very first time_ he saw all that – must have fallen in love with all that lay ahead there and then. He stares at it all now, utterly exhausted after his trip, careful not to make eye contact with his driver as they wait for the gate to open, and he catches himself starting to think in terms of regret. _Better take some pictures before you go._ His mind wanders to the photo album Fili gave him for his birthday – no pictures of the Palace there, oddly enough...

He plans on trudging up to his room and crawling into his bed until the boys return from school, but his plans are interrupted at the very beginning by Balin, whom he runs into right upon entering the Palace.

“Can I see you in my office?” the Chief of Staff asks him uncharacteristically gently, and Bilbo offers a faint smile.

“Of course. What's going on?”

“Nothing major,” Balin explains as they make their way away from the Main Hall ever so slowly, “well – the first court date has been agreed upon.”

“Oh?” Bilbo peeps.

“Yes, two weeks from now. His Majesty has been pulling a lot of strings to get things moving as fast as possible.”

“That's... good,” Bilbo sighs, not even convincing himself.

“Yes. All I need from you is to sign a confidentiality agreement, just a couple of papers, the usual. So that everything is all legal and proper, you know.”

“Yes,” Bilbo mumbles, “I know.”

Upon entering the very familiar hallway leading up to Balin's office, Bilbo is overcome – suddenly, he sees it as if it were yesterday. Stepping foot into this place for the very first time, sitting at Balin's table and furiously flipping through the ridiculous contract, marching up to the King before he even knew he was the King...

Balin's office looks exactly the same as it did then, and Bilbo sinks into the impractically beautiful vintage chair by the table heavily while Balin rummages through its drawers. The ancient monarch from the large painting on the wall is glaring at Bilbo from the midst of a battlefield, as if daring him to compare their respective plights. Bilbo gives up first, glancing away.

He signs whatever Balin puts in front of him obediently, listening to his lecture about legal issues with as much concentration as he can muster. He vaguely guesses he should be relieved upon learning that all he will have to do is testify as a witness a couple of times, nobody is suing _him_ for anything...

“Balin,” he mutters at what he hopes is the least rude moment, “there's something I'd like to...”

“Yes?” the man gazes at him warily.

“I don't know how to... Well,” Bilbo clears his throat, summoning enough courage to look him in the eye at least, “I think I'm going to have to... go back to England. Eventually. After all this is over.”

The silence is like an iron fist pressing on them both – Balin is not easily shocked, Bilbo knows, and if he is, he rarely shows it. Now he looks... very genuinely taken aback.

“Are you quitting?” he asks almost cautiously.

“Well, not right _now,_ ” Bilbo attempts to chuckle, “I just... I think I need to... recover. You know. Away from here. And I don't – I don't know how long that will take. How long I'll need.”

Balin takes a long time before he says anything at all, but Bilbo has to give it to himself, at least he has enough strength not to break eye contact. Mostly.

“Well, I must say I didn't see this coming,” the Chief of Staff admits at last, still eying Bilbo as if he's worried he might break any second now, “there's... a two months' notice if you do decide to quit, it's a part of your contract. I could be persuaded to shorten it to one if necessary. Then there's... well, you could always take a holiday. A leave of absence. I think you qualify for ' _medical reasons_ ' quite clearly, so you shouldn't be able to worry about salary...”

“It's not that,” Bilbo interrupts him, “it's not – I apologize, I shouldn't be springing this on you out of the blue, when even I myself barely know what I want. It's just... I _do know_ I need to get away from all this, from-”

“I understand,” Balin says gently, then opens his mouth to say more, fails, glares at Bilbo some more, then sighs heavily. His next question is asked almost apologetically, as if he knows exactly how much pain he causes Bilbo by posing it.

“Does His Majesty know about this?”

Bilbo hangs his head, and hopes it's enough of an answer.

“I see. You know you're not... _obliged_ to tell him. I mean, whatever you decide on, I'm the one you should go to. Just consider taking some time to be really sure.”

“Of course,” Bilbo smiles at his own hands folded in his lap, “I can barely... I'll talk to him only when I'm certain. You're the second person I told about this today without actually _wanting to._ I'm sorry.”

“Bilbo,” the man says clearly, clearly enough to gain Bilbo's attention – Balin looks at him with such kindness in his eyes, and Bilbo's quite certain he doesn't deserve it.

“No matter what you _think_ you might have done wrong, you're still an invaluable member of my staff. I would hate to lose you – we would _all_ hate to lose you – but I'll do my best to help you whatever you decide.”

Bilbo feels very tiny in his chair then, wringing his hands in his lap, offering a watery smile.

“That's very kind of you to say,” he murmurs, “thank you, I – I promise I'll think about it properly before I make any sort of decision.”

His wound starts aching the second he walks out of Balin's office, as if it _knows,_ as if it's punishing Bilbo for lying.

 

Fortunately, Bilbo's quota for babbling about his mind processes to everyone he's in the same room with is met for a couple of days, it seems. He doesn't have much work on his hands, besides trying to think positively whenever he's with the boys (and come up with a good time to have an important talk with them), anticipating the court date, and, yes, avoiding Thorin a little bit. They still do see each other daily, and it depletes Bilbo's reserves of energy, determination _and_ happiness slowly, but steadily.

Fili needs his Uncle often now because they're preparing for that big test together, and so Bilbo finds the King in the boys' rooms practically every evening. He's there at lunch every now and then. Bilbo has a strange knack for limping his way through the Common Wing every time this or that very important delegation is escorted through it, His Majesty marching side by side with diplomats and politicians, surrounded by guards, and though they're the span of a vast hall apart more often than not, and there are other people rushing here and there, Bilbo feels like it's just the two of them there, like whatever space they find themselves in could never be big enough to dissolve the tension between them.

Then the very last polo match of the season takes place on the premises of the _Hurmulkezer_ on the weekend – yet another thing to remind Bilbo of his beginnings here – and he's so lost in his thoughts, so preoccupied with concentrating on broken hearts and lost chances, that he's almost offended when another part of his reality announces itself.

Bilbo is just fighting off the cold with a large unattractive duffel coat which he can burrow into and never peek out, and he only wishes he were able to drink Mirjam's fresh serving of _hurusmazr_ _âl_ _,_ the warm fruity beverage with a spicy scent and, unfortunately for Bilbo, quite a lot of alcohol in it. He spent the first part of the match shivering – very discreetly so, mind you, because he got to sit with the boys, the King and his father on the main tribune, and he really didn't want to look ungrateful – and so he's now let Bert and Tom take care of the Princes, who have decided to embark on a quest for a cup of tea for their 'nanny' and their grandfather, both slowly freezing to death in their own respective ways.

It's all very surreal as it is, Bilbo glancing Thorin's way more often than not, the King standing in a huddle of no doubt very important people yet again on the far side of the field – he almost jolts up in a nasty shock when he hears the 'Bilbo!', and scolds himself for it the next second.

It's Bard, parting from his own group of People To Talk To, and, yes, there's Gandalf, dapper as always, both men far too cheerful as they approach him – Bilbo hasn't seen Gandalf since the hospital, the journalist even longer than that, and he doesn't really know how to feel. Getting up and walking away right now would be rude, he decides.

“Hello,” he mutters, glancing quickly at Thrain, buried under a blanket and looking ready to doze off any second now while listening to this or that very excited reporter – Bilbo turns away, hugging his own shoulders against a particularly violent gust of autumn wind.

“How are you feeling?” Bard asks, and before Bilbo can bring himself to answer, he continues, “our hero! Sorry I didn't find the time to visit you in the hospital – I was too busy convincing His Majesty not to deport me.”

“A close call,” Gandalf notes, and they both laugh, while Bilbo gapes at them, dumbfounded and a bit nervous – _His Majesty_ is not so far off, and Bilbo wouldn't be too surprised were he to change his mind and decide to deport Bard _right now._

“How _are you_ feeling, Bilbo?” Gandalf asks then, all genuine care – or whatever feeling closest to that he's capable of producing.

“Fine,” Bilbo utters, “I'm fine.”

“Good, I'm glad to hear that. No quitting tendencies, then?”

Bilbo freezes, and Bard's eyes quadruple in size.

“Quitting? Who's quitting? Bilbo?”

“No, I'm-”

“Listen you've _got to_ give me an interview before you do so – _if_ you do so, of course. Not that I want you to-”

“I'm sure Bilbo is here to stay,” Gandalf interrupts him, chuckling, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond as well, but then something lodges in his throat. _Here to stay?_ What do those two know, really? About him, about anything? When did either of them do anything else but use him for their gain? God, liver damage be damned, he needs a drink.

“I'm not,” he supplies curtly, and obviously clearly enough, because they stop and gape at him. He cocks his eyebrow, suddenly defiant.

“I don't think I'm here to stay,” he says slowly, clearly, surprisingly firmly, “you see, after getting shot, carrying a wire to conversations, getting mistaken for a spy, and last but not least, being asked to _testify in court,_ all in the span of a couple of months on a job _you_ Gandalf _promised me_ would be a harmless little adventure, I don't – I don't really know where I stand anymore. I just know I need to _get away_ from all this _as soon as possible,_ thank you very much, and I wish I didn't, I really do.”

For a short blissful moment, silence befalls them, outlined only by the rustling of leaves and distant chatter. Gandalf looks almost sad, while Bard just seems a bit shocked and a lot intrigued, and alright, maybe what Bilbo needed wasn't a drink. Maybe it was this – finally getting a tad more angry and a tad less mopey.

“Gentlemen.”

Thorin appears out of nowhere, Dwalin a few steps behind, and Bilbo feels heat rising in his cheeks – how long had he been standing there? Oh, this is going _just swell._

“Your Majesty,” Gandalf inclines his head, gaze only ever flickering from Bilbo, and Bard utters the same, hiding his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking almost displeased.

Bilbo huffs angrily and buries his nose into his ascot, stubbornly looking away and concentrating on abusing the old wood of the tribune with the tip of his shoe. The smell of Thorin's telltale cologne is very strong right now for whatever reason, and he hates it. Is in the mood for hating just about everything right now, honestly.

“A splendid match,” Gandalf supplies politely.

“Indeed,” Thorin replies, and Bilbo feels his eyes on him.

“Your Majesty,” Bard puts on his best professional tone, as if none of Bilbo's words mattered at all, as if he isn't there at all anymore, “could I persuade you to consider letting Professor Baggins here give me an official interview?”

Oh, so apparently Bilbo _is_ here, but he's not a part of the ongoing conversation. He clears his throat indignantly.

“Why are you asking me?” Thorin notes, and something in his tone makes Bilbo glance up at him, “if you're under the impression that I can make Professor Baggins give you anything at all, you are sorely mistaken.”

Bilbo gapes at him now – he's smiling at Bard ever so gently, and Bilbo recognizes it as one from his vast repertoire of professionally detached faces. Cold as ice, too – fortunately Bard still knows what's good for him.

“I'll operate under the assumption that you're alright with it, then,” he quips lightly, and a ghost of something hard and steel-solid clenches Thorin's features for a split second before he retorts, “and I'll operate under the assumption that you know what you're doing. A courtesy, wouldn't you agree?”

“Certainly,” Bard nods, and they engage in a glaring match while Bilbo squares his shoulders and accepts Gandalf's somewhat compassionate look, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Bard says at last, admitting defeat momentarily, “we'll talk later, Bilbo.”

Bilbo doesn't grant him anything but a fleeting glance and a something like a _hrmph_ in response.

“Well, I see the match is about to resume,” Gandalf chooses a blatant lie to talk himself out of the situation yet again, “better go find my seat before it is swallowed by someone younger and much quicker. I'll stay in touch, Your Majesty.”

“Do so, yes.”

“Take care of yourself, Bilbo.”

“Hrmph.”

They both watch him skip off, waving at people as he goes and making sure that his hat doesn't fly off – Thorin shows no intention whatsoever of leaving any time soon, and Bilbo tries to disappear into his coat, wondering how much of the cold he's feeling is actually caused by the worsening weather.

“Did they bother you much?” the King asks almost softly, and Bilbo looks at him – that much he can manage.

“Not really, no. Nothing I couldn't handle.”

“Just for the record, you're not under any obligation to give any interviews – it's actually well within your rights to tell them off as strictly as you please.”

“Yes, I think I just exercised that,” Bilbo smiles shortly.

“Good, I-”

But Bilbo notices the Princes returning then, victorious with steaming paper cups of tea, and Thrain is being wheeled back to them by his assistant as well, and he makes the quickest, simplest decision he can think of – he doesn't want yet another moment to dissipate in vain.

“I need to talk to you,” he tells Thorin, looking him straight in the eye – quite the feat, but he knows it will have the desired effect.

“Not today, not tomorrow, just... when you find the time.”

“Yes,” Thorin replies simply, barely hesitating, “I'll find the time.”

They stare at each other wordlessly – it's been long since they've managed that, and once they start, stopping is always difficult, of course. Bilbo has long since forbidden himself from saying sorry, decided that he'll resist the desire with which the word presses at his lips, sliding off them so easily – apologies can only go so far now. Thorin looks like he might have something to say as well, and for a moment, Bilbo is so worried that this might be the best and last chance they get, for whatever reason – but then the boys arrive, loud and bright, and it is lost, whatever it might have amounted to.

“Bilbo, here,” Fili pushes a cup of tea into his hands while his brother goes to give the same to Thrain, “uh, sorry, _Indâd,_ we didn't get any for you.”

“You can have mine!” Kili exclaims, the sight of him raising his cup in both his hands to his Uncle who towers over him one that immediately burns itself onto Bilbo's retinas forever, lovely and bitter at the same time.

“I'm fine, thank you, Kili. Keep it,” the King smiles fondly.

The match resumes soon enough. The younger Prince climbs into Thorin's lap, blowing on his tea and sipping it very carefully, looking too adorable for words – a fact that is soon documented by all the photographers who notice in time. Bilbo only hopes he isn't in the picture as well, as he can't be a very pretty addition to the royal family's snapshots in his state. He also wonders if anyone happened to take pictures of him conversing with the King alone, and by the time Thorin casts him the first tentative sideways glance, he's managed to start feeling rather miserable again.

But the thing is this – however unhappy and torn and confused he might be, he knows he's doing something right _for himself_ at least. Doing something right for himself once constituted of saying goodbye to England in what could only be called utterly reckless hurry, leaving his life behind and embarking on an... yes, on an adventure. And it has left him richer, literally _and_ figuratively – he learned a new language (well – _started_ learning it, anyway), discovered a new country, discovered a whole new side of _himself_ , found friends, new experience, love.

But if there's one thing he's always been horrible at, it's taking care of _himself._ He'd devoted a couple of years to his students back when he was a _real_ Professor – used to be willing to do _anything_ for them, for their future and development and happiness. And coming here, taking care of the boys, convincing their Uncle to see his point of view by any means necessary... How was that any different? Everything he's done here, he's done for the boys. And for Thorin. _Thought you were helping._ Yes, that has always been the problem. That, and falling victim to the idea of a false homeland.

_Adventures are not about leaving home, but about finding it._ He'll never remember who said that. Perhaps it was just one of his own creations. The point is, it's wrong. He tries to close his eyes and think of _home_ , and all he sees is his parents' house, yellowing flower-patterned wallpapers and terracotta tiles in the kitchen. And that's gone now, too. Realizing he's a bit alone and a bit lost is staggering, but nothing he didn't anticipate. All he can do now is get un-lost as soon as possible.

 

He becomes braver as a result. Doesn't know how long it'll last, but decides to use up as much of it as he can while it does. Starts with telling Fili and Kili what he did – nobody has advised him against it, and nobody has given him any advice on how to approach it, and he knows that in this, same as in many other things from now on, he's going to have trust his instincts.

It goes much easier than he'd anticipated, actually. He sits the boys down on Sunday and tells them a version of the long and tangled story that he thinks contains all the important information, but omits any sort of subjective point of view, and most of the facts pertaining to the boys' mother, for now. Oh, and the fact that Thorin and him decided somewhere along the way to take their... relationship to the next level. There's no point in confusing them with that – not that Bilbo doesn't think they'd be able to handle it, but they're already trying really hard to make sense of things as they are, and don't need any more information to process.

“So,” Fili says, sitting cross-legged on the carpet while Kili tries to climb all over his back – somehow both of them still manage to eye him with deep interest, warily, “you're not _actually_ a spy.”

“Not really, no,” Bilbo shakes his head.

“But you have a gun!” Kili reasons at the same time that Fili sighs, “shame.”

“Yes, shame,” Bilbo chuckles, then, more clearly, “well then. I thought you deserved to know what was going on. Why everything's been so tense.”

Kili's eyes are still glued to him, large and curious, as if he's expecting the story to continue, but Fili gazes out of the window now, frowning slightly, his forehead creased with worried wrinkles – he's thinking very hard about something.

“Err... any questions?” Bilbo offers, and Kili shakes his head solemnly, but Fili's expression doesn't change one bit – there _will be_ questions, later.

“Fili?” Bilbo notes almost cautiously, and it's as if he's woken the boy from a dream – he looks at him as if he's only just noticing Bilbo's there, then shakes his head as well, slowly.

And Bilbo has to admire him (when has he ever not, is the real question), because he holds off for a whole day, until they're alone on Monday afternoon, struggling with History while Kili takes his piano lesson. Fili finishes the homework obediently, but it's obvious he's struggling to concentrate, losing focus every now and then, eyes darting away absentmindedly.

“Bilbo,” he says the second they shut the schoolbook, “I need to ask you something.”

He sounds so serious that Bilbo actually feels a tiny little nervous shudder up his spine.

“Of course, anything.”

“Are you going to – will you leave us?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond immediately, but ends up gaping at him in shocked silence.

“Because I've been thinking,” Fili hurries to continue, “you made it sound like you thought that that attack – you know, the one in the night, and then we went to the house in the mountains... It sounded like you thought it was your fault. But it wasn't! It couldn't have been. And Thorin-”

“Fili,” Bilbo interrupts him, somewhat ragged, but the Prince is momentarily unstoppable.

“No, listen. Thorin told me that. When I first asked him. That you just got, uh... caught up in the middle? Sort of. I don't know how to translate it. But anyway, he told me not to worry about you, and then Balin and Deidre kept telling us to be nice to you, that you were going through a... a rough time, and Thorin promised that they would find the people who did this to you, and-”

“Fili,” Bilbo repeats, intently now, reaching and putting one hand on his shoulder, trying so very hard to keep his voice steady, “Fili.”

The Prince glares at him, almost angry about something, and Bilbo finds he's running a bit short of breath. He inhales deeply, trying to sort out his thoughts, trying to come up with a good way to say what he needs to say. He _must_ be truthful with Fili. He must.

“It's... _so_ good of you to worry so much,” he starts, Fili's stare unyielding, almost frighteningly piercing, “and I am – I am going through a rough time. But what I _actually_ tried to tell you by telling you that whole story is... I am where I am right now by no one's fault but my own.”

“You didn't _shoot yourself,_ ” Fili points out.

“No, that's true, I didn't. But I did think – I thought I knew a lot about things I actually shouldn't have meddled in at all. _That's_ what's my fault. And even if it weren't... Look, whatever happens, I want you to always remember that what I decide to do, I'm not doing because someone _made me._ How did you – what even gave you the idea? That I'm leaving?”

Fili gapes at him for a while longer, then hangs his head, picking at the fraying corner of his schoolbook.

“Deidre said you needed a break. I just figured...”

“You assumed the worst,” Bilbo sighs.

“I guess.”

Bilbo scrunches his face in a desperate grimace that Fili can't see – oh, this is _so not_ going the way he wanted it to.

“Look,” he says quietly, hand settling on Fili's arm tenderly, “I just need to... Deidre was right. I do need a break. I myself don't quite... don't quite know how long it will have to be. And it's not a break from _you_. God, you know how much I love being with you boys. But it's not – I need to gather myself back up again, after everything that's happened. You know? I wish, I _really really wish_ there were a way for me to do that here. But even if I do leave, it doesn't mean I'll stop caring about you. You are the best, brightest boys I've ever met, and leaving you will be the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. Can you – will you remember that?”

It is only by some miracle that his voice doesn't break. Fili looks at him at last, and his glare reminds Bilbo of Thorin's so much, so shockingly ice-cold and steady. It takes ages before he answers.

“I need you,” he says at last, but it sounds almost accusatory, “and Kili needs you. And Thorin needs you.”

“You needed me back when I first came here,” Bilbo replies gently, “but look at you now. You're doing amazing. All of you. Remember when you wouldn't even have lunch with your Uncle?”

“Yeah,” Fili all but growls, then, straightening up, “we're done here, right? Can I go now?”

“Go where?” Bilbo asks uneasily.

“I'll be right back,” Fili retorts, “I'll tell Balin I ran away from you.”

“No, Fili – hold on!”

But it's too late – the Prince stands up resolutely and marches out of the room before Bilbo can even get a good enough grip on his cane to stand up.

“Dammit,” he hisses, scrambling to his feet, and tries his damnedest to swallow the much stronger curses threatening to roll off his tongue, “oh, this is just _brilliant._ ”

He should have known this was a bad idea – but honestly, how could he have anticipated that things would turn sour _so quickly?_

Worst of all, he has no idea where Fili might have gone. When he makes it out of the room, he sees what he'd expected – that Bert the bodyguard followed his assigned Prince.

“Where did they go?” he asks the nearest guard, pacing at the far side of the hallway.

“No idea,” the man utters, then points, “that way. Downstairs.”

“Lovely,” Bilbo grumbles, “just lovely.”

He limps there as fast as humanly possible without pulling his stitches, which have to last one more week or so. Remembers his conversation with Thorin as the staircase comes into view, and decides to actually take the elevator this time. His phone buzzes right after he punches the button for the ground floor, reminding him that he needs to pick up Kili from his lesson. Oh, _excellent._ His temples are starting to throb. _So many great ideas lately, Bilbo Baggins._

The elevator travels excruciatingly slow, but fortunately the first face he sees when its doors slide open at long last, is Balin, noticing him soon enough.

“Bilbo! What are you doing down here, is everything alright?”

“No, not really. Fili's gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean he ran out on me just now – we talked about...”

“Oh,” Balin sighs, ever the clairvoyant, “where do you think he's gone? Is his guard with him?”

“Yes. But I don't know where – listen, can you help me? I've yet to pick up Kili from his lesson, and I don't...”

“Don't worry,” Balin nods, “go get Kili, I'll go after Fili. I'll let you know once I've found him.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo exhales shakily, “thank you.”

He realizes where Fili's gone long before he reaches Kili and his tutor in the library, long before Balin calls him. _His Majesty's office._ Of course. Bilbo doesn't even – he's not even surprised. The way things have been going, this is actually a perfect culmination of all his misfortunes.

“What's going on?” Kili demands, and Bilbo realizes how distressed he must probably look.

“Uh... I have to go get Fili.”

“Where is he? He's allowed out of his room now?” Kili complains.

“No, no, he's not. That's the problem. Tom?” Bilbo turns to the little Prince's bodyguard, “could you please escort Kili to his room?”

“Can't I come with?”

“No, not... not now,” Bilbo replies somewhat desperately, “just wait for us in your room, we'll be back shortly.”

“Fine,” Kili sighs, slipping his hand into Tom's much, much larger one and letting the man lead him away, already chattering away about this or that... Bilbo can't imagine what the confrontation ahead of him would look like were Kili present. Not that it's looking so good now.

By the time he arrives at Thorin's office – he has to physically force himself to walk slower, because his wound is tense and tugging, the telltale knot of dull pain in his lower back reminding him that he's just about done for today – he's played every possible scenario awaiting him in his head. And yet he's still all but prepared.

Balin's standing outside the door, and all he offers is a nod and a very compassionate look, and Bilbo winces. Fili is sitting in the front room, curled up on a sofa, and pouting doesn't even begin to describe his sour outlook. Bert the bodyguard looms by the window, and he also has a highly understanding, almost apologetic glance in store for Bilbo.

“Fili-”

“Thorin wants to talk to you,” the boy utters mechanically, “sorry I ran away.”

“Why here?” Bilbo asks, “what did you tell your Uncle?”

Fili gazes at him, and it almost seems like he's going to answer, but then he just huffs and turns away.

“Alright then,” Bilbo exhales, trying to brace himself at least a little bit, “wait for me here, or go back to your room, I don't mind either way. But we need to talk some more.”

Fili glares at him incredulously for a while, almost wounded, but then he simply grunts and gets up in one sweeping motion, marching out of the room, Bert following him swiftly. Bilbo entertains the idea of leaving as well, but then he hears Thorin clearing his throat inside his office, and as much pain as he's in, he decides to see this through.

The King sits at his table with a tall pile of documents, his laptop _and_ a still steaming cup of coffee, but as busy as he looks at first sight, Bilbo knows that he's not really concentrating on any of it. He's staring at the computer screen dully, and when Bilbo steps in and he glances up, he looks... sick. For the lack of a better word. Pale and fragile, nothing of his usual firm and impenetrable facade in place. Bilbo's heart skips several beats, and for a moment, they just stare at each other.

“I'm so sorry for-” Bilbo starts, but Thorin interrupts him immediately, quiet but no less heart-stopping.

“You're leaving.”

“I'm-”

“Fili came barging in here out of the blue, accusing me of lying, and of _driving you away._ Imagine my surprise.”

“Oh, god, Thorin, I'm-”

“I spent our brief time together trying to convince him that I had no idea that you'd made... whatever decision you'd made, but he's gotten it in his head that it's my fault that you...”

He wants to continue, but has to clench his jaw against whatever emotions threaten to overwhelm him, and Bilbo thinks that if the ground below his feet opened right now and hell swallowed him, it would be a blessing.

“I never... I never wanted you to learn like this,” he murmurs feebly, “and I never wanted Fili to learn the way he did. It just – it all got away from me a bit.”

“Obviously.”

There's no venom in it, and yet Bilbo feels like his stitches are being pulled out _right now._

“Is it official?” Thorin asks heavily, “I haven't gotten a notice from Balin, or anything, so...”

“No, no,” Bilbo hurries to say, “I was going to, erm... tell people first, before making it... official.”

“I see.”

_Run away. Run away right now._ This is horrible. Bilbo knows that neither of them have the capacity to steer this conversation the right way, not here, not now.

“I'll talk to Fili,” he offers, “I tried explaining to him before that none of this is anyone's fault but my own. And I won't have him... I can't have him blame you.”

_I can't have them – and you – deteriorate to something so terrifyingly similar to the state I found you in. Incapable of talking to each other, communicating through misunderstandings... I can't leave you like this._

“Well, good luck with that,” Thorin supplies with an outward bitterness very unlike him, “I blame myself already, so this would hardly be an unexpected addition.”

“Thorin...”

Thorin rises from his seat slowly, almost laboriously, and Bilbo is too entranced by the sight to pay any attention to the warning bells chiming in his head when Thorin walks around the table and closer to him.

“You say that you don't want my boys to blame me,” he says very quietly, as if he's double-checking every word before it even leaves his mouth, “but I wish they did. I wish you did. Instead of blaming yourself.”

Bilbo stares at him, stern glasses and soft wrinkles around his eyes and the thin, tense line of his lips, and it takes all he's got not to give up right there and then.

“Well then,” he replies as tenderly as he can, “it seems that we've reached an impasse.”

The soft chuckle is mutual, and Bilbo suspects it also carries similar levels of anguish. _Any time now,_ he tells himself. _Any time now, something will happen, something to sway your resolve, to convince you that you_ can _stay._ But of course, he decides to smother that ember before it can become a spark, and the spark a wildfire swallowing him whole.

“I can't stay here,” he says, almost whispers, his lungs barely meeting his requirements for air, “and it's not you. Please, it's not you. You know this. It's... this. All the rest. Gunshots, and court hearings, and bugs in hospital rooms, and talking about _espionage_ like it's nothing, and... It's everything _but_ you.”

He reaches for the King's hand without really thinking about it that much – holds it in both of his own, large and warm and soft, gently, afraid that he might pull away at any given second, but also perfectly determined to give him enough space for that. Thorin gazes at him and Bilbo thinks the look will haunt him until the end of his days – it's as if all the emotions Bilbo himself is feeling are mirrored in there, regret and despair and love in equally lethal doses.

“I am _a part_ of all this,” the King notes as if reminding Bilbo of some trivial fact he foolishly omitted, “this is what my life consists of. _Your life_ would consist of, were you to... I understand. I understand that's not particularly appealing.”

“Thorin, I'm...”

_I'm sorry,_ he wants to say, yet again . _I do so wish you came without all of it. I wish I could spend the rest of my life with you – they way I've come to know you, the way I know you can be. I wish I had it in me to stand by you despite all of this. Show you that your life can consist of so much more than this. I wish I were braver, and I wish I had been smarter._

“I'm grateful,” Thorin sighs, “for what you've shown me. For everything. Thinking it could last was just me being... you know. Unprofessional.”

The huff of laughter is entirely unexpected, and it punches all air out of Bilbo's lungs as he lets it out; almost breaks him in half.

“I wish I could find a way,” he tells Thorin's tie pin, because he can't look any higher than that.

“Yes. Me too.”

When he returns to the Princes' rooms, Fili is sulking in his bed with a book, and Kili has been crying. He spends the rest of the evening repairing _that_ damage, and thinks he's eventually going to have to thank Thorin for not pleading with him to stay. Maybe that's yet to come, Bilbo thinks. _Maybe I_ am _actually dreaming._

 

Everything happens so incredibly fast in Erebor. It's sickening, really. And terrifying. Bilbo wears his second best suit to court, and spends a day listening to his own voice from the recording of his conversation with Bundushar, staring blankly ahead, answering questions as best he can, and glancing at Thorin on the far side of the vast hall. He is, above all, disappointed. He's always had this set of images in his head, about how things would go. One of them included telling everything to Thorin in person, being there for his every single reaction... But the truth is, Bilbo won't be granted that. Ever.

He spent the most crucial time confined to a hospital bed. He will never know how Thorin reacted when he first learned the scope of the story. He will never know how Thorin spent that week or two, straining to hold a country together, as well as himself, and he will never know how he's doing now, not really.

Once, they were almost used to an odd sort of intimacy – they would sit side by side on the sofa in Thorin's apartment, for hours, and talked about nothing important, and yet they knew. Once, Bilbo was allowed to come close and stay close.

Now, he watches the King in his light grey suit as the story unfolds before them in a series of cold facts and summaries and evidence, and he can't even tell if Thorin's looking at him, what with the distance separating them.

And Bilbo is headed away from Erebor. There's no helping that now. Kili sobbed and made him promise that it wasn't forever. And who knows – maybe it won't be. Bilbo genuinely can't see further ahead than... days. Weeks, maybe.

He's good at deadlines, and so he inquires about his old apartment before his stitches are pulled, and hands in his notice after they are. Starts telling people – _really_ telling people – after that. Goes to court two more times before Bundushar is caught. Arrested at an airport in Spain. Bilbo watches the media explosion, the humbug and uproar, and realizes he doesn't care. He's never... he's never cared. Not really. If he never learns the whole scope of things, if he never learns who actually shot him... What does it matter?

“ _Now_ will you give me an interview?” Bard asks him when his face actually appears in the press for the first time.

Bilbo says no. The idea of him getting any sort of recognition before he leaves makes him feel sick to his very marrow. He'd once contemplated what it would be like were he to stay by the King's side – would there be profiles on him, interviews, misinformation? Most certainly. He used to think that _that_ would definitely be an adventure. Now, he just wants to get away as soon as possible, really.

Erebor grants him that, at least, the final courtesy of the country he'd once thought could be his new home.

' _The end of an era'_ the news reporters are calling it. _'The future is uncertain',_ and _'Smaug Bundushar redefining the boundaries of crime',_ and _'How will the EU react?'_

Fili watches the news and demands answers from his Uncle, and while Bilbo is here, he must smooth things over – he thinks he's never been a part of anything more heart-wrenching than Thorin and him sitting Fili down and telling him a very simplified version of the truth. That his parents hadn't died by accident. That's that. Thorin promising that he'll tell him the whole story one day, and Fili not even complaining.

“He'll make a wonderful King one day,” says Bofur uncharacteristically solemnly after Bilbo has described the story to them – them being Bombur and his wife, and Balin, all of them sitting in the cafeteria very late into the night, in a tight circle of armchairs by the fireplace.

“I hope so,” Bilbo murmurs, and feels their gazes on him, wary and still sad, always a bit sad.

Bofur had been the one with all the ' _don't go_ 's and ' _are you sure_ 's, and later on, after Bilbo had begged him to please understand, ' _we'll miss you so much'_ es. Bilbo wants to tell him, wants to tell all these people, just how much he owes them, how grateful he is for having met them, how difficult the idea of never seeing them again is to stomach. Sometimes, he thinks – manages to convince himself – that they know. They must know.

He devotes all his energy to convincing the boys that he's not leaving _because of them._ Because unlike Bofur and the rest, the Princes will never just guess it, connect the dots. He tells Kili that he loves them and that he'll send them books each month and that they'll talk over Skype, and that yes, he'll heal eventually. In the younger boy's eyes, Bilbo's wound is the source of all this, and he's convinced that once it's gone, Bilbo will come back from his 'break'. Bilbo contemplates creating a metaphor about scars that always stay no matter how well the wounds heal, but he makes himself sad just thinking about it.

Fili doesn't listen – doesn't want to. He tells Bilbo outright that he's angry with him for leaving, and Bilbo says he doesn't blame him. But no amount of explanations or assurances seem to work with the boy. He does his schoolwork obediently, listens to Bilbo's bedtime stories or reads them himself without a problem, but beyond that, nothing.

It's six weeks until his return to England (he even entertained the idea of going somewhere else, France, New Zealand, the US, but dismissed it quickly as even more aimless wandering); then four. Then two. Everybody is very understanding, nobody ever tries to... to emotionally blackmail him after he explains that he is indeed set on leaving. No grand gestures or shocking turns of events seem to be in store for him.

Thorin doesn't appear at his doorstep in the middle of the night, pleading with him to stay, not once.

Bilbo doesn't have long, thorough conversations about his intentions with anyone. Even Fridda, taking him out again after he tells her, has the decency to keep most of her opinions to herself.

“You could always stay here,” she says, after some complaining about the weather this time of the year in England, “in the country, I mean. Rent a nice apartment in the city. Hell, I'd hire you as a teacher in a heartbeat.”

Bilbo pfft's and sips on his milkshake.

“Tempting,” he smiles, and it lasts him about ten seconds – soon enough, they're talking about meeting up in London, and so forth and so on, and it doesn't matter anymore.

It doesn't matter that Bilbo wants with his very being to stay. Just stay. Forget what he must do to get better, forget being _responsible,_ and _adult,_ and _sensible,_ and just stay. But already he's living on borrowed time here – it's like a quickly fading dream, colors losing vibrance faster than he can name them, all his memories a blur. If he overstays his welcome, he's worried he won't be able to preserve the beauty of what he's experienced here.

“I can't help but feel like this is my fault,” utters Gandalf – Gandalf, whom Bilbo didn't want to meet with  _at all_ , but somehow they ended up 'accidentally running into each other' at the court house – and Bilbo, who is fed up with _faults_ and _blames,_ just laughs, drier than dusty paper.

“It _is_ your fault,” he replies calmly.

They're sitting outside on one of the stone benches in the park surrounding the ancient building, and the weather is blissfully un-autumnal, the sun offering warmth where there will soon be only light, bright oak leaves like a cheerful pattern on the lush green lawns. Bilbo feels well-rested and pleasantly tired, and definitely not angry at Gandalf. He's had enough time to figure out precisely what he feels towards the man, and he has nothing to lose now, no issue with telling it like it is.

“You gave me a wonderful opportunity, offering me this job,” he says, disregarding Gandalf's frown, “really. I don't blame you for dragging me to Erebor – all in all, it's the best thing that's ever happened to me. In a way. Parts of it. But there are many other parts that I would gladly have avoided, and yes, most of those just sort of happened because I let you rope me into more and more of your little schemes that I had no idea about. I suppose it would have been nice to know that I'd end up as a pawn in your high games, but eh, we can only ever get so much.”

“Speaking of high games,” Gandalf completely disregards Bilbo's words, again, “I could list you as an asset to the MI6, if you like. If you just sign-”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It would just mean the agency would have an official file on you, and-”

“As opposed to the unofficial one they have now?” Bilbo quips.

“Bilbo...”

“Gandalf, no,” Bilbo laughs without a hint of humor, “I don't care in the slightest about whatever you want to offer me. I don't need your help, or your apologies _masked_ as help. I just want to get away from all this, from _you,_ and everything you stand for. Is that clear enough for you?”

Gandalf merely holds his gaze, no doubt turning it all over in his head, and Bilbo knows he will end up being bitter about this as well. Good lord, they used to be friends. So long ago now.

“Are you sure I absolutely cannot help you with anything?”

It's kind enough, but Bilbo's finished with all that.

“No. You've done more than enough, thank you. I'm returning to England shortly, and I'd love to know that this – all of this – is over now. That you won't be appearing at my doorstep out of the blue with more exciting adventures in store.”

Gandalf opens his mouth, but wisely decides against saying whatever he was going to say, and simply hangs his head, smiling to himself. The look he then casts Bilbo is almost genuinely touched.

“It's over,” he says, “I promise.”

 

It's not even been a year. He realizes that when Kili mentions Christmas, and if they could come to London for it. It's not even been a year since Bilbo came here, and he'll be celebrating Christmas alone. And New Year's. And he won't be there for Fili's birthday ('January 14th , write it down!'). The bookmark in his thick planner is now on the same page as the big red circle encompassing the word 'Leaving', and it's too late. Too late now to get overwhelmed by nostalgia and back out.

His flight is on Sunday at noon, Sunday the third of December. His contract runs its course on the first, of course, but the general consensus is that he'll stay the weekend to... well, to say goodbye. Properly. Once and for all. One more week to go. One _last_ week to go.

He waits a half of it for decent weather, to take Fili out for the last lesson outside. He'd promised. And it won't be much of a lesson, obviously. They walk side by side, bundled up in their coats, blissfully alone save for Bert observing from a safe distance. They're headed nowhere in particular.

“What if I fail Literature when you're not here?” Fili asks, dragging his feet over the softly ground gravel of the walkway, occasionally kicking it, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders squared.

“I'm sure that's not going to happen,” Bilbo smiles, “we're still going to talk over Skype, remember? I promise you I'll recognize when you're slacking off.”

Fili scoffs, but he seems satisfied with the answer.

“Will you also be advising the new nanny?”

“If Balin finds someone willing to do the job, then sure,” Bilbo retorts playfully, and Fili can't hide the grin for a fleeting second.

“We're not that bad,” he accuses Bilbo.

“No, you're not. You're excellent. I'm just not sure you'll be too eager to let whoever takes my job know anytime soon.”

“That's because we don't want anyone to take your job,” Fili replies very simply, then adding, almost amused, “we already have a pact, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. To... what was it? Raise hell? Yeah. To be so horrible that no nanny – sorry, sorry, _tutor –_ will have us. No one in the world will be able to handle us, and so Balin will eventually have to call you back.”

Fili is so obviously teasing, but Bilbo's chest still constricts painfully.

“Well,” he struggles to maintain a light tone, “don't make it too hard on Balin. It's his job too, you know, to take care of you.”

The fact that someone would be replacing him is yet another one Bilbo didn't come to realize until very late – it manages to make him utterly nauseous every time he thinks about it. Someone else getting close to the boys, seeing them on a daily basis, helping them grow, sharing their secrets... He knows that they're reluctant to let him go now, but what about a year from now? Two years? Five? They'll barely remember him.

“Promise me something, Fili,” he says much more seriously than he'd intended, and so he summons a smile when the Prince gives more of his attention, continuing more steadily, “take care of your Uncle. Don't be angry with him just because he sometimes doesn't really know how to speak to you. You know – indulge him, let him help you with Maths and Physics every now and then. You're all he's got. Can you do that for me?”

They stop by a lonely bench, deep into the park, not a soul in sight – the unceasing breeze strips the chestnuts of their leaves and tousles the boy's hair as he watches Bilbo wordlessly, for a long while.

“I think so,” he says at last, thoughtfully.

“Thank you. Oh, and... I've got something for you.”

“What is it?” Fili's eyes widen, and they sit down on the bench, side by side.

“This,” Bilbo fishes out the gift triumphantly, “it used to belong to my Mum, and then it belonged to me, and now it's yours. Add your signature on the last page... see? Here.”

The Prince turns the small blue book with gold embossed pattern and letters in his hands, as if he's seeing it for the first time.

“Tom Sawyer,” he mumbles.

“The first book we ever read together,” Bilbo smiles, “it's kind of old, so be nice to it, alright?”

“Alright. Uh... thank you,” Fili peeps, eyes still glued to the slightly fading cover.

“You are very welcome. Now come on. We still need to tell Balin about our plans.”

The plans are simple enough. Spend one last nice day with the boys before... well, the _very last_ day. Bilbo still shouldn't really be driving, but Bofur accepts the job quickly enough – together, they drive into town to pick the boys up from school, and then they all of them spend a grand afternoon stuffing themselves with pastries and milkshakes in the Princes' favorite little shop. And that's it, really. Nothing elaborate, nothing heartbreaking if Bilbo can help it. Still, the boys all but refuse to leave his presence – Kili obviously so, Fili more subtly, but he hardly protests. As he could hardly protest when they asked him to have dinner at Thorin's apartment. Because they've come to love it so much. Because they've no idea that Bilbo hasn't set foot in there since he came back to the Palace from the hospital.

But he can't protest, and Thorin agreed easily enough as well, and so the five of them, along with Thrain, sit around the large table, and Bilbo thinks that if he tries hard enough, he'll be able to breathe through it. He'd expected it to be more difficult somehow, in fact. God, all of this should be more difficult. All of this.

But at least he gets to see that here, he's achieved something. The boys and their Uncle chat easily enough, Thorin glancing Bilbo's way often, but not excruciatingly often enough... It's good. It's good like this. Bilbo can leave them like this. He's barely had a conversation longer than five minutes with Thorin ever since the incident with Fili getting angry at him, and Bilbo supposes that that's how things actually happen in the real world. Calmly. Not painlessly, just... not unnecessarily dramatically. Ironic, really, compared to... well, most of his escapades here.

 

Which is why he's... yes, shocked is a good word... shocked, when Thorin _does_ in fact appear at his doorstep later that night, long after Bilbo has put the boys to bed and promised them they could help him pack tomorrow. He's in the middle of folding his shirts into neat piles, glad he decided to buy a new suitcase – his wardrobe has grown considerably during his stay here – and the knock on the door is very tentative. Bilbo knows immediately.

Thorin doesn't beg – Bilbo would hate him to. He kisses – after the first moments of somewhat stifled small talk, they finally come to realize where they're standing. What's ahead of them. That there isn't much of it. God, Bilbo is actually glad it happens. Something between them just snaps – one second, he's making an offhand comment about the quality of Ereborean socks, and the other, Thorin's hands are cradling his face and he drops the aforementioned socks and scrambles to get a grip on the front of Thorin's shirt instead.

It's not very well thought-through, and it's definitely not one of their softest kisses, but it does the job. Bilbo senses that one last tiny part of him finally snapping into place. He's done. He's finished. He's come full circle, and he lets that one kiss stick him together and shatter him at the same time; break his heart and remind it that it's capable of beating, too.

“I'm still going,” he murmurs, his hands refusing to part from the furnace of Thorin's chest.

“I know. I just wanted to...”

“I'm glad you did. I really am.”

_Take care of the boys. Take care of yourself. Go to bed at a reasonable hour, don't let this break you. I love you, I love you, I love you._

There are so many things Bilbo could say, should say.

“Don't let the plants die.”

Thorin laughing shortly, quietly, opens a chasm smack in the middle of Bilbo's chest, one that he doesn't think anyone will be closing any time soon.

“I'll do my very best.”

“Good. And if you're ever, erm...”

“Not kinging?”

It's Bilbo's turn to laugh, and maybe this is the best way for things to go.

“Not kinging, yes,” he grins, looking up into his King's dim dark eyes, “do stop by.”

-

 

And that's it. Bilbo will always remember his last weekend at Erebor with fondness. Saturday spent with the boys, and with Balin, signing whatever is needed so that should he ever decide to talk about his experience in Erebor, he'd be forced by law to keep his mouth shut about most of what he... well, experienced here. But gosh, all of that doesn't matter.

What matters is the Princes laughing and flinging his socks in bundles at each other as they 'assist' him with his packing. What matters is people stopping by to say goodbye to him as he hurries after Balin here and there. What matters is Dwalin trying to convince him to keep his gun when he goes to officially return it, gruffly and sternly, ' _who knows, you might need it sometime, I mean look at you, you literally attract trouble'_ , and the two of them laughing about Bilbo misfiring it in England and causing trouble for Erebor even after he's long gone, no thank you.

What matters is that Bilbo didn't cry, not once, in all his time back at the Palace after his stay at the hospital, but he bursts to tears quite spontaneously when his friends and colleagues gather to throw him a very impromptu going-away party that last night, in the cafeteria, of course.

He receives enough bottles of wine to be arrested flat at the airport probably, and a basket of cold cuts and sausages and cheeses from Deidre which he has no idea _where_ he'll fit, and pats on the back and goodbyes and laughter and more tears.

He thinks maybe he's lucky. Maybe the right decisions are supposed to feel like this. He thinks maybe, there will come a day when returning here, for a visit or to stay, won't be such a far-fetched idea. Maybe his future isn't set in stone, and maybe it involves Erebor, and maybe not being sure at all is a good thing.

He wakes up before his alarm goes off the next morning, and he's surprisingly fresh, and less surprisingly emotional. Slips into his designated travel outfit, checks his travel documents, tries to remember his travel mood. A bell boy comes for his luggage, and the Princes come to accompany him downstairs, holding onto his hands, both of them, as the elevator carries them all slowly towards Bilbo's last farewell.

It's cold, and it's going to rain soon, and everybody's breath is immediately frozen into little clouds, but they're all there – Bombur with Mirjam at his arm, Balin with Dwalin, Deidre and even Thrain, yet again buried in as many blankets as his wheelchair can carry. And of course Bofur, in his full chauffeur get-up, as he will be driving Bilbo to the airport.

Thorin, dark coat over a darker suit, standing against the wind and cold like a pillar.

Bilbo ushers the boys to him, and goes about saying his goodbyes. Kisses on both cheeks from Mirjam. Rib-crushing bear hug from Bombur. Hand on his shoulder and an order to take care and stay in touch from Balin. An unusually earnest smile from Dwalin. A peck on the cheek and a comment about eating properly ' _even though England is no Erebor when it comes to pierogies'_ from Deidre. Gratitude and an ' _it was an honor meeting you_ ' from Thrain, reassuring himself again that Bilbo will indeed remember to write him as per their agreement.

Kili and Fili, red-cheeked and with their hair mussed up by the weather, both shaking his hand very seriously, then Kili breaking the spell and hurling himself into Bilbo's arms. Bilbo lifts him off his feet easily enough despite his injury, and sways him gently and whispers to him about being good and being brave and always smiling and taking care of everyone because he's the only one who can, and wipes his tears away with his thumbs when he sets him down, making sure the weepy smile stays in place by booping his nose ever so lightly.

Fili resorts to an embrace as well, not as long and not as openly emotional, but Bilbo feels his hands digging into his coat tightly, and knows the shaky exhale rattles his whole body.

Thorin.

A handshake, of course a handshake. Both the King's hands coming to close over Bilbo's right when he moves to do the same, and so they end up standing there, holding onto each other in the increasing cold.

“Thank you,” Thorin tells him, voice deep, even, smooth, “for everything.”

Bilbo nods. _And I you. Keep them safe. You'll be fine. You'll all be fine. I'll be fine. Eventually._

But he says none of that. Says precisely nothing, in fact, because all the words get tangled up in his throat and never make it any further. But Thorin knows. Doesn't he? Of course he does. Yes.

The warmth is gone entirely too quickly after they let go of each other. And Bilbo finds he's all dried out. Thorin nods at him, ever so excellent at keeping everything in check, his smile gentle and only a little bit pained, and Bilbo nods back and his throat aches.

He gets into the car quickly, because tears are still rolling down Kili's cheeks and Fili's holding his hand tight, eyes glistening as well, and Thorin watches him, and the Palace looms behind them, large and white and old, and the trees, aided by the wind, whisper and hiss at him to _ssstay._

It starts raining the second Bofur guides the car out of the gate, soft rapping on its roof, and Bilbo thinks the dashes and drops on the tinted window can be considered encouragement enough to let his own tears flow free at last.

The last he sees of the Royal Palace of Erebor is its monumental silhouette as the car turns a large arch away from it, the wings of the heavy, tall main gate slowly closing. He clutches onto his satchel in his lap and sniffs, then groans in exasperation.

“What is it?” Bofur asks, entirely too concerned.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Bilbo babbles, his voice wobbly, overcome with the tears, “it's just that I packed all my handkerchiefs into the big suitcase and now I don't have one with me.”

And no one can blame them if they take that as an opportunity to laugh rather than cry.

 

“I wish you all the luck in the world,” Bofur tells him after they've reached their destination safely, and embraced plenty, “I really do.”

“Keep an eye on all of them, please,” Bilbo orders him, and is rewarded with a salute.

“Will do. You stay safe. And in touch.”

“Yes,” Bilbo smiles, “I'll do my best.”

_All the luck in the world,_ he thinks as he delves into the departures hall of Azanulbizar Airport. He's leaving Erebor richer for countless clothes and shoes and one very fine tux, richer for a very neat twelve-stitch scar, richer for the memories and the broken heart, and of course richer for the atrocious amounts of money, heading towards a small cold un-lived in London apartment, and he thinks that the only stroke of luck he can wish for is that it won't be raining in England.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, here we are. I always knew we were headed here, but nevertheless this chapter sort of spiraled out of control a little bit. Many questions remain unanswered precisely because Bilbo doesn't feel like seeking answers to them, and I hope that's fine with you guys. For now. Only one more chapter to go! *bites knuckles, screams wordlessly*


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He never broke my heart, he only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him."_ \- Clementine von Radics

It is, of course, raining in England. Heathrow is bleaker than he remembers it, but then, he spent the entirety of the flight slowly going colorblind – a side effect of the grief, obviously. It all takes forever. Getting out of the plane, being welcomed in the country by a flight attendant rudely ignorant of his state of mind, waiting for the luggage... Grey rain descends on grey pavements, and a mass of grey people hurries here and there, without a sliver of consideration – he is slowed down by his three suitcases, his wound and his heavy heart, and by the time he hails a cab, it feels like ages since he woke up back in his little apartment in Erebor that morning.

There were no big epic unexpected events preceding his departure, no Thorin appearing at the airport back in Erebor and preventing him from leaving, and Bilbo doesn't even realize he perhaps should have expected that until he's a couple of countries and a sea away. No, he's back... _here_ now (calling it home doesn't sit well with him yet, and he wonders if it ever will), and he did the right thing by going and Thorin did the right thing by letting him go, and it's sad, and it's horrible, and Bilbo hates being an adult about it all.

The cab ride to his apartment takes forever as well. The driver's radio chatters away, an indiscernible murmur of news Bilbo can't be bothered to listen to – he lets it blend with all the other noise, cars honking and engines revving and rain drumming, and stares at the commotion with unseeing eyes.

It's still green. The door to his place is still that bottle green color, and he doesn't know what he expected really – a part of him imagined the color fading, the lacquer cracking, because he'd been away for so, so long, hadn't he... But the truth is, he hadn't, and here he is, and the old door looks almost accusatory – how dare he assume that anything's changed?

The cab drives away before Bilbo can ask the driver to help him with the suitcases – he still shouldn't be carrying anything heavy, actually – but it has fortunately stopped raining. And so Bilbo stands in the street by his hoard of luggage, wishing he'd bought his own cane, and stares and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Mister Baggins!”

That's Mister Gaffer, the old landlord, waiting for him at the apartment as per their agreement, and now limping to him down the stairs. Even he looks precisely the same. It's like Bilbo never left.

“Hello,” he manages to summon a somewhat sour smile, and the man sizes him up and down.

“You look a little worse for wear,” he comments, “what is it that you did in that country of yours?”

“A simple tutoring job,” Bilbo chuckles even though he aches just thinking about it, “I'll tell you all about it, but perhaps not in the street?”

Perhaps. God, the apartment is tinier than he remembers it. Darker, too, and smelling faintly of cat. The landlord goes on and on about who lived here when Bilbo was gone, _'I'm just glad you're back, I'll say as much – I'm hoping for less marijuana smoke, at least',_ and Bilbo assesses the damage from his seat at the table by the window. All the cupboards are in place. The couch seems almost untouched (though he's certain he'll be getting a new quilt for it, and soon). The TV is still there, as is the bookshelf, all empty and while not exactly dust-covered, it all still seems... abandoned. Waiting for him. He hates it.

“What about you, then?” the landlord asks, setting a cup of tea in front of Bilbo, “any exciting stories from your time abroad?”

Bilbo stares at the slowly swirling dark liquid first, into the man's round, honest face second.

“Not... not really, no,” he decides at last, and the landlord frowns, but then he grins.

“I understand. You must be exhausted, I'll leave you to it. I switched on the thermostat this morning, but you know the old thing, it'll take a while before it makes any difference. I'll stop by tomorrow for that advance on the rent we talked about, if that's alright?”

“Oh, yes, yes, perfectly alright. Thank you.”

 _Perfectly alright._ Bilbo watches him see himself out, babbling about answering any questions Bilbo might have, _'you know where to find me'_ , and only when the door creaks open and close does he realize how cold it really is.

He sits for the longest time, just sits, and listens. The faucet is leaking, as it always has been, and the cats are welcoming him back with a jumbled serenade of hisses and hungry meowing, no doubt huddled by the trash cans outside... He buries his face in his hands and groans, but whatever emotion he'd been expecting to overwhelm him never comes. He's cold and sore and at the edge of hungry, and that's about it.

He can still see all of them so perfectly, standing there at the top of the large white marble stairs in a perfect line, their faces as they exchanged their last farewells... But he's here now, and the tea has that distinctly bitter taste he hasn't experienced in almost a year, and it's starting to rain again, and he feels nothing but utter exhaustion.

Eventually, he drags himself to the bedroom – it's even colder there, and the bed is bare and the wardrobe empty, and he doesn't know if he has what it takes to fill all these empty spaces like gaping wounds again.

But he figures he's going to have to start soon, if he wants to live through the winter.

Unpacking is the easiest way of occupying himself, really – the sight of his suitcases in the middle of his living room is depressing enough to jolt him into action, as slow and unenthusiastic as it is. He feels unnaturally overjoyed to discover his small ancient kitchen radio in one of the cupboards, and it only takes a bit of fiddling before it is successfully plugged in and transmitting... something, whatever, he doesn't pay attention. Only needs the noise, needs _something_ to drive the majority of his thoughts out of his head as he begins unpacking, begins the no doubt futile attempt at taking out the innards of three medium-sized suitcases and filling a one bedroom apartment with them enough so that he actually feels like spending time in it.

He doesn't get emotional when he smooths down the lapels of his tux, covering it with the soft cloth it came with so that not a speck of dust settles on the sheen fabric. No tears are shed filling the bookshelf and realizing he doesn't have enough books for that, that he'd gotten used to borrowing everything from the massive library back at the Palace. He finds the binder filled with Kili's drawings, pinning some of them to the fridge without a hint of sadness, even managing a little smile. He doesn't even think twice before tossing out the pamphlet he got on the plane that has a very nice photograph of the Palace in it.

Finding places for all the memorabilia he's gathered over the past year is done almost mechanically – the little flag from the Peace celebrations stabbed into the sandy earth nursing the only plant in the apartment as of now, a small resilient cactus that probably belonged to the people who lived here while he was gone. The gold-rimmed invitation to the Gala displayed on the bookshelf. Fili's photo album unopened, tucked away safely in the nightstand. All the little gifts he'd gotten for his birthday, that tumbler he'd bought for himself in his favorite coffee shop, those adorable cupcake cups with the delicate flower pattern he'll probably never use. The different cards he'd bought and collected, the ticket from that outdoor opera performance Fridda took him to ages ago, even that year-long ticket to the National Theater she gave him for his birthday, and which he will now never redeem...

He finds a place for all of those things, slowly, carefully, tenderly, and it takes him so very long. It has started getting dark by the time he's done, and he decides that all real-life issues will be handled tomorrow, including shopping for groceries. His early dinner consists of digging into that gift basket Deidre had made for him...

And it is there and then, chewing on the delicious rosemary crackers and the spiced sausage (truly the dinner of champions) and flipping through the channels, trying to figure out when the news actually start in England, that he's finally overwhelmed. The tears come from nowhere, not brought by any particular memory or anything – they just are, suddenly streaming down his face and meddling with the taste of his food and stuffing his nose, and he thinks it's ridiculous, because he's finally warm, finally feeling at least a little bit comfortable, finally _settled..._ And yet, as the familiar tune announces the start of the news report, Bilbo cries his eyes out, good old-fashioned sobbing with his shoulders shaking and his throat aching and the stream of tears never stopping no matter how much he tries.

He feels incredibly nauseous and incredibly frail, curled up on himself, the blanket around his shoulders carrying that smell of lying around unused for too long, and the harder he tries to stop weeping, the more shattering his sobs are. He falls asleep on the sofa like that, after hours of barely seeing what's on the television because his vision is blurred, after hours of the tears always coming back when he thinks they've finally stopped, and wakes up too early in the morning, stiff and cold and sore, throat raw and eyes red-rimmed, feeling worse than ever, and completely unprepared to face his new slash old everyday reality.

-

 

The wind doesn't get to him. His collar turned up against it and his hands shoved in his pockets, he suspects he's already much colder than the rapidly worsening weather. He stands stiff and stares straight ahead, afraid of wavering were he to move but a little bit. He exchanges a glance with Dwalin, who inclines his head in some unreadable message – Thorin can't be bothered to decipher it, really. Probably something along the lines of _'Well? You're just going to let this happen?'_.

Well? Of course he's going to let this happen. What choice does he have? What choice do either of them have? Bilbo needs to get away lest he breaks, and Thorin must let him go. That is the natural order of things. He could have begged, and Bilbo could have made the decision to be reckless and stay, and both of them would have suffered for it, at some point, eventually.

There he goes. So small, so pale. It's like the boys are the only thing helping him move forward, each holding onto one of his hands. A feeble smile briefly lights up his face when he sees all of them standing in line, all the people who have come to say their last goodbye. Thorin itches with the need to look away, gaze at anything but him, but he finds he's also afraid of _not_ spending every single one of the very last moments they'll have drinking him in, committing every single piece of him to memory like the details of a beautiful painting.

Because that's what Bilbo will be, eventually – nothing but a memento, a flash of colors in Thorin's mind, a picture of a time so surreal Thorin will forever doubt it wasn't just a dream.

Too long it takes, too long before Bilbo stands before him. Far too long, Thorin wonders how to reverse all this. But he's made his attempt, hasn't he? If it can be called that. Last night, knowing that it most probably wouldn't change anything, he crossed the distance between his office and Bilbo's apartment, and he can think of any number of reasons why it was foolish, and pointless, and unnecessarily hurtful for both of them, but in the end, he's glad he did it. Bilbo himself told him _he_ was glad, and Thorin wishes it had been harder to believe.

There's no forgetting the soft gasp that escaped Bilbo when Thorin first held him – everything about him had been gentle and fragile, Thorin was almost afraid he'd break him. And yet, he understood his intentions perfectly, and they kissed like they'd never kissed before and never would again. Thorin wonders if Bilbo felt it too – at one point, he was almost sure that it would be enough, that they could fix everything in that one single precious moment, kiss and take back everything that had gone sour. But he knew better, and Bilbo knew better. _I'm still going._

 _I know,_ Thorin had answered, _I just wanted to..._

 _Make sure that you are real, that you_ were _real, before you fade away from me for good._

Already, standing atop that staircase and steeling himself while Kili sobs quietly into Bilbo's shoulder, the memories of the past year are melting together in Thorin's mind, nothing more than a series of images, flashing with varying intensity. Emotions are attached to them firmly, for now. How long will it last?

A handshake. Of course, a handshake. Never enough after everything, but they both know that. Bilbo's hand is so much smaller and so much colder, and before Thorin can think about it, he's covering it with both of his – Bilbo has the same idea, as it turns out, and so they stand there like that for the longest time, and the rising wind blows all else away.

“Thank you,” Thorin tells him, keeping his voice calm the most difficult feat of his career, “for everything.”

For a split second, Bilbo looks as if he's been struck, but Thorin suspects he doesn't even realize it. He merely nods, with the faintest ghost of a smile, and Thorin doesn't blame him for not saying anything. Nor does he blame himself for not being able to let him go. No, wait, it would actually be good if he said something. A goodbye. A 'you're welcome'. Anything to put an end to all of this.

But no, for the very last time, Bilbo behaves against Thorin's every expectation, and leaves. Without a word.

The limousine crawls up the driveway and away excruciatingly slow, but the further it is from the Palace, the duller Thorin feels. He thinks he hears someone sniff – probably Deidre. Tiny fingers close around his hand, and Kili peers up at him, eyes full of tears like huge, dark glimmering pools. Thorin summons a smile from a reserve he didn't know he had and rests his hand on the boy's shoulder, the other one ruffling his hair, and Kili buries his face in his coat.

“Can't you go after him?”

That's Fili, glaring straight ahead, shoulders squared, looking so much like his father without even knowing it.

“I can't,” Thorin replies simply, “I promised.”

They made no such promise, not clearly spoken anyway, but perhaps it would have been easier if they had. Several times during the past weeks, Bilbo felt it necessary to assure him that he would make the boys understand why he's _really_ leaving. Thorin kept running into him unexpectedly, meeting him at lunches and in the boys' rooms... _Wishing_ he were there when he sat on his sofa, awake late into the night, trying to come up with a suitable solution to a problem that had nothing to do with the elections or the court hearings or the missing criminals, and yet proved itself potent enough to occupy the forefront of his mind, always.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many fail-safes comprised of professional detachment he put in place, Thorin hasn't been capable of thinking straight ever since... ever since that night he returned home from his travels abroad, and found it in ruins, figuratively or otherwise. Everything he'd known, everything he'd taken for granted, turned upside down.

 _I promised._ Thorin promised himself that he would find a way, like he'd always found a way. That he would see to it that no more horrible things would happen to the people he cared about. The failure wasn't his own, not per se, and yet he had been all but incapable of looking Bilbo straight in the eye these past weeks.

This – standing by as Bilbo, wonderful, brave, beautiful Bilbo, finally found his breaking point and decided _not_ to cross it, but rather retreat before it was too late – was the only thing Thorin could do for him. It will forever pain him, how little they _actually_ talked once they both knew he would leave. Thorin didn't require apologies – never did and never would. He required explanations, and solutions, without the capacity to come up with either, and without anyone else to offer them satisfyingly.

And really, a part of him expected it – a part of him stopped believing that anything would ever turn out right after the revolution. At some point, the losses he'd endured became an intrinsic part of who he was, and who he'd always be. Losing people and moving on was in his job description and in his blood alike.

The only problem this time around was that Bilbo actually made him believe for a while that he might break this unlucky streak.

“I'm going inside,” Fili announces coldly, then, reaching for his brother still holding tight onto Thorin's coat, “come on, Kili.”

“Staying with _Indâd_ ,” is the younger boy's murmured response, and Fili frowns, not disappointed, just annoyed.

They're all alone outside now, save for Dwalin and the boys' bodyguards, and Thorin doesn't even remember registering everyone else leaving.

“Come here,” he sighs, lifting Kili up into his arms, “it's cold, we should all go inside.”

Fili glares at him with an entirely unreadable expression for a moment, but still walks by his side as they go hide from the increasingly more horrible weather. Thorin sets Kili down in the hall, the boy looking equal parts sad and sleepy, rubbing all leftover tears away from his eyes, and Thorin's chest constricts at the sight.

“Go with Tom now, _akhûnith._ I'll see you at lunch,” he tells his nephew, and the boy sniffs.

“Will you come read to us before bed?”

“I can do it,” Fili says quickly before Thorin can respond, but Kili is still on the verge of tears, and so Thorin counters with a gentle, “of course. I'll be there. Now off you go, there's still a long time to go until then.”

He watches them leave, Kili's hand sliding into his brother's, and it's only when they're gone that all the noise of the Palace around him rushes back in, and he stands in the midst of the Main Hall in a bit of a daze, barely registering that there are other people in there with him, rushing in all directions.

“Thorin,” Dwalin's voice guides him out of his confusion, “you've got that phone call waiting in your office.”

 _Still a long time to go until then._ Thorin wonders, as he lets his feet carry him through hallways upon hallways, swiftly and mechanically, if this is what he'll live like from now on. From one lunch with the boys to another, from bedtime readings to Maths homework, barely breathing in the meantime.

 _Stay close to them._ Bilbo never said it out loud, but it was always there – it had been his goal since day one, after all. To reconcile Thorin with his nephews. He's achieved so much despite everything, and Thorin never thanked him for it. What will it be like, sitting at the large lunch table today, just the three of them? Will his boys even want to spend time with him without Bilbo to guide them through any misunderstandings that might arise?

Will Thorin ever stop seeing him everywhere he turns, seeing his face the way it looked seconds before he left, pale against the dark lapels of his coat, hair mussed by the wind, lips smiling faintly and eyes trying to convey too much in too short a time?

Will he ever stop feeling like he's digging his own grave deeper and deeper the more _right things_ he does, and _sensible decisions_ he makes?

-

 

The weather continues to be dreadful, as expected. London probably won't remember what snow means until Christmas... Christmas. Bilbo doesn't particularly want to think about it, but there's no avoiding it – the very first store he enters smacks him over the head with carols and over-the-top seasonal decorations. He doesn't dare venture to the center of the city, knowing full well just how deadly the commotion can be there this time of the year...

He doesn't need much, anyway. Food, yes, and lots of it. New sheets. New laptop – or maybe a tablet, since he got so used to it back in Erebor. New planner...

He really should slow down and _not_ try to buy everything in the span of two days, but the idea of sitting in his apartment for too long fills him with a particular sort of dread. He can't stand it. And so he restocks his fridge first. Easy. Slightly depressing, as the stores here don't carry some of the stuff he'd gotten used to. Plus, he barely remembers how the whole 'living alone and cooking for himself' ordeal is done. What if he buys too much at once, or too little...

But all that really matters at the end of Day One is that he's tired enough to doze off in front of the TV again, no tears this time. Maybe if he never stops, always finds something to do, they'll never come again. A sound strategy, for now.

Next day; making sure that he doesn't spend half his funds on withdrawals – which means going to the bank, any bank, and listening to the clerk for what might be hours, and probably catching a cold on account of the air conditioning. Once he has full access to his money, the necessary electronics. A new SIM card for his phone, a new computer. He can afford whatever the hell he wants, probably, but he soon finds that he sincerely doesn't care. He lets the man in the obnoxiously bright yellow uniform pick out whatever he thinks might meet his requirements, stoutly refuses _'the best Christmas deal you could wish for!'_ , and spends the longest time simply staring at the laptop back at home before gathering enough resolve to boot it up.

Because... yes, because once he does that, there's no escaping reality. He checks his mailbox first – immediately and automatically goes to his Palace-staff account, which is, of course, nonexistent now, and promptly tries to forget he ever did so – and there are a thousand and one messages waiting for him already. Fridda worrying, the Erebor Royal Bank describing to him curtly of all that he needs to do for his funds to be transferred, Erebor _everything_ reminding him of the fact that he was in the country two days ago, was _a part of it,_ and now he's not, and never will be again.

Two e-mails from Balin, a very professional one inquiring about whatever information is still needed for Bilbo to _really_ disappear from the _Hurmulkezer_ payroll, and the other one reminding him... reminding him that the Princes want to speak as soon as possible, _'please let us know whenever you're ready, you know their schedule but I can still provide it for you in document form...'_

Bilbo isn't ready. Is he? Isn't he? The boys don't care – he _promised_ that he would speak to them over Skype as soon as possible, and he can't let them down in that. He mustn't. It's not like Thorin will be standing behind their shoulder. God. _Man up, Bilbo Baggins._

Writing a very simple, very polite e-mail takes him much longer than it should, really. He keeps hesitating and getting distracted and changing unimportant words and phrases like _'I'd love to'_ and _'at your earliest convenience'_ to whatever he thinks will sound the most like he's not having _any trouble at all,_ thank you very much.

Balin replies entirely too quickly, and a date and time is set so easily, and Bilbo actually isn't too pleased about being so excited. Surely this won't last long – he can't let it. He can't spend the rest of his life looking forward to Skype calls, and neither can the boys...

But all is forgotten, at least temporarily, when the screen flickers alive the next day at almost precisely four in the afternoon, and the pale and slightly grainy faces of the two Princes appear. Sometimes in the past couple of days, it felt like years since he'd left, but now it doesn't seem like more than a blink of an eye since he stood embracing them in front of the Palace, and it's simultaneously exhilarating, and the worst damn feeling in the world.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims and leans forward so that his face takes up the majority of the screen, only to be moved aside by his older brother.

“Hey, can you hear us?” Fili demands, and Kili echoes, “can you see us? We can see you!”

“I can see you too,” Bilbo smiles, glad that his voice comes out relatively normal, “hello.”

“Hi! How are you? Did you survive the flight?” Kili wants to know, wriggling on Fili's lap.

“Of course he survived the flight,” the older Prince sighs, steadying his brother, “you're not a ghost, are you, Bilbo?”

“I don't think so,” Bilbo murmurs, finding he can't quite fight the smile – maybe that should be considered a good thing. He can see the bright light of the afternoon sun pouring through the window into the room behind the boys, and it's such a stark contrast to the gray, heavy clouds outside his own window. It makes them look almost ethereal, almost unreal.

“Balin says we can only talk to you after homework,” Kili announces, “but Fili wanted...”

“I've been wondering if I could talk to you when I need help _with_ homework.”

“Oh, well, I don't – I don't see why not, I mean as long as Balin allows it-”

“What's that?” Kili cuts him off, presumably noticing something behind Bilbo.

“What's what? Oh, that? That's just the reflection on the window, see...”

“Ah, show me, show me!” Kili demands, and Fili adds, “show us your whole house!”, and Bilbo has to laugh.

“I don't actually... have a house. A really, _really_ small apartment, more like. Nothing special to see here, I think...”

“No, no, show us!”

And so Bilbo does – carries the laptop carefully and lets the boys peek out of the window, and into his bedroom, and at his bookshelf and his fridge ( _'Is that my drawing? That's my drawing!'_ ), and it's about a thousand times less heart-wrenching than he'd expected, really. He doesn't even get to ask them how they're doing. Or how Thorin is doing. Or anything.

The call is over before they know it, because Kili has yet to attend his piano lesson, and Bilbo orders Fili to do the reading he knows full well he's been postponing... And it's strange, more than anything. He sits on his couch after ending the call and the silence of the apartment and the background noise from the street slowly seep back in, somehow heavier and more forlorn than before.

How long will this last them? How long will Bilbo be capable of being there for them whenever they need him, just like they'd agreed just now? He spends the rest of the day watching reruns of Doctor Who without really paying attention, and he wonders how long it will take him to start feeling properly lonely.

And Christmas is around the corner. And his family will want to know he's back in town. Maybe he could lie, keep them in the dark for another month or two, because facing a massive Christmas gathering is currently not very high on his list of things that might lift his mood.

No, he's going to bunker down here and leave all that starting-anew business to the new year. That's a plan. Almost a month of moping ahead of him, without any social interactions, without searching for a new job, without thinking overmuch. Nice. Good.

But of course that lasts him only as long as he's blissfully unaware of his numerous Aunts' spying capabilities. Even before Erebor, he was never too keen on spending holidays with them, but he did it anyway. Once a year, he would always tell himself. Once a year was survivable, and gave him an excuse to avoid them for the rest of it.

This time, it's Primula who contacts him, which is surprising – she's the one he likes best, and the one who bothers him the least, and yet here she is, asking if he's still _'on that government job in Europe',_ and pointing out that they'd like to send him gifts, so if he could please include an address _and_ a working phone number, thank you very much...

Bilbo reads the e-mail a couple of times with some chagrin, and spends an afternoon deciding what to do. He _so_ doesn't want to deal with his family. He so doesn't want to answer their questions, and explain things, and kiss his numerous Aunts on their cheeks and smile and repeat over and over again that he really is not getting married any time soon, no.

But Primula is... Prim is comparatively normal, and nice, and always seemed to genuinely care, and also share Bilbo's exasperation about Aunt Lobelia... Before he knows it, he's dialing her number, even though he's not really sure what he's going to say.

“Bilbo?! Is that really you? Good god, you've risen from the dead! It's so good to hear your voice!” she exclaims once he announces himself, and Bilbo thinks he can hear children laughing on her end, and wonders if she's sitting at the large table in what once used to be his mother's kitchen...

“Likewise,” he replies, “so listen, I've been wondering...”

“Are you coming for Christmas? Oh, you must! What have you been up to? You must tell me everything – oh Pip, would you _stop that?_ I'm sorry, sorry. Cousin Eglantine is staying here with the kids, it's all a bit of a mess. Where are you now? When did you come back from... what was it again?”

“Erebor,” Bilbo sighs, stretching his legs on the couch, staring at the ceiling and bracing himself, “I'm in London now, I came back only a couple of days ago, actually.”

“That's wonderful! Just in time. You need to come tell us all about it! Why don't you drive over here for Christmas?”

“I don't know, Prim, I only just got back...”

“Oh, come on! Lobelia won't be here, you know,” she laughs, “yeah, she and Otho are in Paris this year, probably celebrating being alone for the first time in twenty years... Yes, yes, we were all very surprised...”

It's so easy, chatting with her, listening to minor family dramas and cousins he didn't know he had getting married and traveling the world... And it's tempting, maybe, just a bit, to drive to the countryside (or take the train to the countryside, because he doesn't feel like buying a car just yet, to be honest) and see his childhood home again, and forget everything that has gone south in his life recently. Eat a lot, check up on the kids, see if everything is still in place how he remembers it, breathe fresh air and escape from his responsibilities... God, maybe it's exactly what he needs. Something to look forward to.

“Alright, I'll come visit,” he decides at last, and Prim lets out a happy squeak that hasn't changed since they were eight years old, and Bilbo suddenly feels very nostalgic.

-

 

Snow comes with the same quiet relentlessness it does every year – he wakes up one morning and sees nothing but white below, benches and bushes and walkways and statues blanketed by it as if covered carefully by a thin cloth. It's beautiful, in a way, and the boys will be so excited, but it doesn't make getting up any easier.

Oddly enough, his stance about sleep has changed at some point in the past couple of weeks. What used to be an unattainable luxury is now the best escape from his everyday reality. He tried sitting alone in his apartment the first couple of days, spent whole nights awake when Bilbo was in the hospital, but then when it all became a bit too much, he retreated to sleep at long last. Never caught much of it – probably never will – but there's something comforting about surrendering to it, declaring the day over.

The mornings are still utterly horrible, of course. He vaguely remembers that not so long ago, there was a time when he would wake up with a smile on his face. Also, times when he would wake up to a smile on Bilbo's face. Recalling that does him no good, but he can't get rid of it no matter how hard he tries.

But at least there are duties, once he gets past hating the emptiness of his bed, and reins in the ache in his joints that's far too debilitating to be anything else than bone-deep weariness. Bilbo thought he needed a break, and maybe Thorin does, too.

After he's done running the country, of course. Done _kinging._ _Do stop by,_ Bilbo had told him, and Thorin only hopes to live long enough to see that happen.

In the meantime, there's a heap of leftover mess to sweep up. Court hearings to attend, official statements to give. The elections were won, but Dain shares Thorin's sentiment – that only gave them a very short head start. Lulled the public to peace just long enough so that they can concentrate on the real danger, still very present.

Even with a pile of charges, evidence and witness statements against him, even with the press systematically tearing him apart, Bundushar is still as bulletproof as ever. The first court hearing they spend in the same room, he watches Thorin like a reptile, eyes unflinching, managing to maintain an air of impenetrable self-confidence even now, handcuffed and surrounded by police officers.

The lawyers assure Thorin that it's only a matter of persevering, never budging an inch, not allowing Bundushar a second of rest – and Thorin is perfectly willing to do all that. He'll be damned if he's surrendering his country now.

 _Out of the three of us,_ D í s always used to say, _you're the only one fit for this job._ He thinks of her often now, what with having learned just how much she'd done, and he realizes she would have made just as good a ruler as him. Probably better. She was so young, and she gave her life to prevent something that Thorin almost let happen years later, and he doesn't know whether she'd be proud or angry right now.

All he knows is that _out of the three of them,_ he's the only one left, and he must do _his_ very best.

 

She probably would have disapproved of Fili learning everything – she probably would have disapproved of _Thorin_ learning everything, come to think of it, considering the lengths she'd gone to to keep the secret to herself – but telling the boy still feels like the right thing to do. He will be King one day, after all, and he must understand. Besides, he's _so_ curious. Balin informs Thorin that he's been reading up on the recent history with much more care now that he knows (albeit vaguely) how and why his mother really died, and the questions he poses are best not left unanswered.

“Why did Bundushar think Bilbo was a spy?” comes one just like that, out of the blue one evening, the two of them bent over Fili's homework, comprised of problems that are, Thorin notes with some pride, not particularly challenging for the boy, allowing his mind to wander.

Thorin's pen hovers over the paper unsteadily, and at last he resorts to a simple: “It's complicated.”

“I get that,” Fili quips, “was it because Doctor Grey wanted him to think so?”

“Fili...”

“Doctor Grey _is_ a spy, though, right? A real one, I mean.”

Thorin opens his mouth to answer, but his nephew is looking at him almost expectantly, his pencil drumming on the paper, and his curiosity, while unnerving, is something to be commended, rather than shunned, Thorin decides. _Bilbo would think so, too._

“ _How_ on earth did you figure that out? Who have you been talking to?” Thorin asks kindly.

“No one,” Fili dismisses it, and when Thorin inclines his head, he repeats, more firmly, “no one! I watch the news, you know.”

He sounds so serious, so adult – Thorin chuckles. But Fili frowns at him.

“Come on, tell me, please. Doctor Grey had all those men under his command during the attack, and he was here all the time after Bilbo got shot, and then Bilbo told us all about what he'd been helping him with, but I'm pretty sure he left out a lot. I just want to know everything that happened.”

“I'm sure you do,” Thorin sighs, then, eying the boy somewhat carefully, saying the next words tentatively because he's not quite sure himself he wants to say them at all, “you do know why Bilbo had to leave, right?”

Fili scowls some more, as if he can't quite believe the question he's being asked.

“Yeah. He _needed a break._ ”

The air quotes snap in place almost audibly.

“He did. And I'm sure he would have told you-”

“That's not my point,” Fili interrupts him so curtly Thorin is too taken aback to scold him.

“I just want to know what's going on. Balin won't answer anything, he always tells me to ask you, or to see if I can find what I'm looking for in _books._ Please?”

Thorin gazes at him wordlessly for a moment, the stubborn, determined gleam in his eyes a perfect likeness of Dís', and he thinks about ruined childhoods and the loss of innocence. What would Bilbo have said? _Well, maybe he would have had faith that you'd be able to think for yourself every now and then._

“You know what?” Thorin decides at last, “how about you come to the next court hearing with me? It's on Monday morning.”

“And miss school?” Fili points out, but already the exhilaration is obvious in his eyes.

“And miss school,” Thorin nods, “as far as I'm concerned, this is education, too. You might get answers to some of your questions, and you might get even more questions, but I promise I'll try to answer everything myself after that. How does that sound?”

Fili's eyes dart from him to the homework, then back to him, and he scrutinizes Thorin for a long while, perfectly justified in his anticipation of a 'but' – but Thorin has no more reservations, no more reasons to distance himself. If Bilbo has left him with one thing, it is the slowly growing ability to function normally around his nephews. He's just surprised it seems to have survived Bilbo's departure.

“That sounds great,” the eldest Prince decides at last, and grins when Thorin smiles at him, adding hastily, “oh, you're going to have to sign this... like a notice, so that I'm excused from school. Bilbo always did those, but...”

“Right,” Thorin says firmly, ignoring the painful pang in his chest, “have it ready for me tomorrow.”

He realizes too late how clinical and stupidly professional that sounds, but Fili merely smiles even brighter, nodding.

“Alright then,” Thorin sighs, “it seems that we're done here, yes? Anything else you need help with?”

“No, I'm fine, Bilbo already helped me with English today.”

The feeling of dull pain, like a pocket-sized black hole opening somewhere in his chest, is stronger now, more persistent, but he grits his teeth against it.

“I'm glad to hear that...-”

“You could talk to him too, you know.”

Fili's expression never changes, he still gazes at Thorin somewhat curiously, and probably perfectly capable of seeing through his suddenly stiffening posture. Some time ago, Thorin would have simply dismissed him and walked away, but he feels like he owes him more than that. He'll probably fail at an actual explanation, but he'd like to believe he gets credit for trying.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” he supplies somewhat clumsily.

“Why?”

“Bilbo is... he needs some time to himself.”

“But Kili and me talk to him all the time. He doesn't seem to mind.”

“That's different.”

“How?”

 _Well, for one, he probably actually_ wants to _talk to you._

“Fili,” Thorin sighs, getting up from the table and rubbing his forehead, “I wasn't... happy to let Bilbo go. But we – it was the right thing to do.”

“Deidre once told me that Bilbo was everything that all of us have been waiting for. Including you.”

 _That_ he did not need to hear with a couple more hours of work ahead of him – especially not so casually. Fili really is getting excellent at saying precisely what needs to be said, even though people don't want to hear it. An essential quality for a future king, is it not?

“She did?” Thorin peeps.

“Yeah. You should go after him.”

Thorin is running a bit short of breath – an entirely novel sensation, to be honest, certainly when enticed by his nephew.

“I don't – that's not how it works, Fili,” he manages somewhat lamely, “whatever you think might have happened, I assure you it's much more complicated than that-”

“Ah, I'm thirteen, _Indâd_ , I'm not stupid. You liked him.”

It's anger and something much more vulnerable, like panic, fighting for control in Thorin's head. For all that he's learned in the past year, he is still largely clueless when it comes to... well, a lot of things, being faced with Fili's unexpected cleverness and charming bluntness being one of them. His shoulders slump.

“You... knew this about me?”

“Of course,” Fili nods firmly, “I've known... well, when I was little I kept asking Mum when _you'd_ be getting a wife, and why did she marry sooner than you did... Look, I'm sorry. I was curious. She sat me down and explained it to me.”

“Did she now.”

Of course she did. Very much like Dís, to be perfectly open with her children. Had she been there to raise them, they would have been unstoppable. More than they already are. God, for all intents and purposes, Thorin should be furious, but all he wants to do is thank her. _It doesn't need to be so difficult,_ she used to say, _all you need is a bit of good old-fashioned bravery._

In so many things lately, Thorin has been determined, and unyielding, and strict... Rarely brave. Surviving everything life has thrown at him lately doesn't count. Dís wouldn't think so.

“She said it was really hard on you, and probably would be really hard on you for the rest of your life,” Fili continues, his gentle tone making Thorin pay attention, “and I just thought... well, I don't know. That Bilbo would somehow make it easier, maybe? He's so good at dealing with all these problems that seem too difficult, don't you think?”

Thorin chuckles.

“I agree,” he smiles, and even though Fili still watches him somewhat warily, Thorin knows that this conversation – probably the longest they've had in a while that didn't revolve around Maths or Physics – is doing them both good.

But it is cut short, of course it is, by Kili bursting into the room, and by the time Thorin bids them goodbye and leaves to power through the rest of the day, the heavy unease is back in place, weighing on his shoulders. In children's eyes, it all appears so much easier. You love someone, you stay with them. You find happiness, you keep it. If Thorin thought like them, he would have begged Bilbo to stay. Would have clung onto whatever there was left of what they _could have been,_ just because he was too afraid of facing reality. The reality of having found his one chance at real happiness, unrestricted and wholesome, and letting it go to waste.

-

 

It gets better. He can do this. He's not so far as to start, say, searching for a new job, but he can function normally, on a day-to-day basis. With his incredibly modest spending, money won't be a problem for a long time – it's not like he's planning on buying a car, or a new place, or anything like that, any time soon.

He feels a bit guilty about not having brought anything from Erebor for his family, and so he goes and gets a lot of generic gifts for when he travels north to stay at Prim's. They've agreed on a week – a week of long walks through snow-covered Lancashire, spending as much time outside and alone as he can possibly grab without being rude. Prim will understand. Of course she will. It will be her and her husband Drogo, and apparently cousin Eglantine with the kids, whom Bilbo hasn't seen in years... He doesn't mind. All that he cares about is escaping the city, escaping into nature and hopefully finding some peace of mind there.

He talks to the Princes almost daily, and knows that he will soon need to take a break from that as well, if he has any hopes of clearing his mind. This is where it's always been headed, isn't it? Growing apart. He's only been back in England for a little longer than two weeks, but Erebor already feels an eternity ago and light years away.

“It's snowing!” Kili exclaims happily one Saturday morning, and tries to angle the computer screen so that Bilbo can see out of the window behind him – in vain, of course.

“Build a snowman,” Bilbo murmurs, still cozy and warm in his bed – getting up before lunch these days is a rare occurrence.

“Okay! Can I make him look like you?”

“That wouldn't be a very handsome snowman,” Bilbo chuckles, “where's your brother?”

“He's with _Indâd,_ ” Kili supplies, “they went to  _anzur-ubdûkh_ together again.”

“A court hearing?” Bilbo translates automatically, “really?”

“Mm-hm,” the boy nods, “Fili wants to know everything.”

“Everything... about what?”

“I don't know,” Kili shrugs, “just everything.”

Bilbo is about to ask some more, but then Muzmith the kitten takes over the conversation by jumping in front of the screen, and Kili squeaks.

“My god, she's big,” Bilbo comments, and Kili beams in pride, as if it's his achievement that the cat's been eating properly.

“She is! I wanted to ask _Indâd_ if we could get another one for Christmas. Deidre says she might get sad alone.”

“My my,” Bilbo grins, “two boys and two cats in one room? Imagine the mayhem.”

“No-o,” Kili moans, “it would be fun! Can't you come back and tell _Indâd_ that it would be fun?”

A faint sound of someone clearing their throat is heard then, and Bilbo remembers that Kili isn't in the room alone – Balin is standing nearby and overseeing everything.

“I'm sure your Uncle will agree to it no problem, if you ask him nicely,” Bilbo steers the conversation carefully, “just try it.”

Kili sighs entirely too profoundly for an eight-year-old, squirming on his chair and stabbing a pencil on the desk repeatedly, the kitten watching the process with the interest of a hunter awaiting to assault its prey.

“Okay,” he says with some resignation, “but you should still come back. You know how to do the voices when you read to us.”

“And Balin doesn't?” Bilbo chuckles.

“No, Balin doesn't read to us!” comes an almost indignant reply.

“Oh, sorry, my bad. Who then? Do you have a new governess yet?” Bilbo asks, not really sure he wants to know the answer.

“Not yet,” Kili shakes his head, now using the pencil to scratch Muzmith behind the ear, much to the cat's confusion, “ _Indâd_ reads to us. But he lets Fili do it a lot.”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps, then, forcing at least some determination into his voice, “you should let Fili and your Uncle practice, you know. Practice makes perfect, and not everyone is a natural like you and me.”

Kili giggles – more often than not, he would adopt one of Bilbo's especially quirky voices he'd develop for this or that character from the book they were currently reading, and spend the whole day talking like that. _Getting ready for a role you haven't gotten yet,_ Bilbo used to tell him, and the boy used to nod with much satisfaction, the little actor he was.

“Oh, you'll be performing in that play soon, won't you?” Bilbo points out to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts, and Kili gets even more elated – he spends the next fifteen minutes reciting some of the lines he has, gesturing wildly and all but bobbing up and down in his chair, the excitement apparent...

Bilbo leaves him to it. Doesn't ask any more about the life at the Palace, doesn't even speak to Balin, really. Lies still for a long while after the call, staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. This is what Erebor has been reduced to for him – glimpses of the Princes' room, and trying to imagine what the outside looks like. He can still see the Palace so clearly when he closes his eyes, the way from the boys' quarters to his own etched in his mind, but even that will fade eventually. The only other person from Erebor he's spoken to is Balin, he realizes. And, yes, Fridda, who called him when he was in the middle of grocery shopping, and he spent some time assuring her that he was doing just fine, and only realized he hadn't asked about a single thing about _her_ after their conversation ended.

The news are full of Erebor, for now, if one knows where to look. At first, Bilbo would chicken out of watching whenever Thorin's face turned up on the screen. Naturally. But he's getting better even at that. He thinks.

_'The prevalent opinion these days is that the rest of the European Union could vastly benefit from following Erebor's example – the law enforcement of the Alpine kingdom has always been one of the fastest working, most seamless systems, and even now, having suffered a blow that would have sent most countries into utter chaos, it works surprisingly smoothly. The prosecution of the internationally renowned mogul Smaug Bundushar, along with the members of the political party he chose to endorse, and the Chief of the Ereborean secret services as well as a number of other high-ranking officials, is quickly becoming the trial of the century._

_The counterparts of His Majesty King Thorin II from all over the world have been expressing their doubts about the stability of the country, but it seems that at least in Erebor, the monarchy, which many consider an obsolete concept, reigns as firmly as ever, with the elections won in its favor even in the most trying of times. Furthermore, the King's unyielding stance when it comes to most of the EU's regulations has earned his country more long-term benefits than anticipated...'_

So yes, Thorin is doing good – Bilbo would have expected no less from him. Erebor has survived worse, and Bilbo sincerely wishes that this were the last string of horrid incidents ever thrown the Crown's way. The details be damned. No channel he manages to catch ever talks about the late Princess Dís and what she did to ensure Bundushar's downfall – the corrosion of the Moria Conglomerate is often described as _'unexpected but hardly the first or the last of its kind'_ or as _'a cautionary tale'_ , but that's about it.

Thorin's father is usually mentioned in relation to the existence of modern day miracles, and the one time he actually appears on screen, he is sitting in his wheelchair next to Thorin, both father and son wearing very formal, very beautiful matching uniforms, and gazing ahead as rows upon rows of the members of the Royal Guard and the army march below their vantage point in the celebration of this or that important holiday. Fili and Kili are there too, huddling in their suits and coats, fidgeting much more visibly than the adults – Bilbo only watches the event because he'd promised them, and because Kili told him _'We're going to wave a lot, and you can take it like we're waving at you!'_ , and very soon, the cup of cocoa spiced with just a drop of the rum he'd bought recently, trying _not to feel_ like a horrendous alcoholic, proves a very good idea indeed.

He glares at Thorin's face – here, on the web when he scours the pages of Bard's newspaper, any time it pops up anywhere really – and tries to see past the chiseled marble of his best regal expressions. Tries to spot something, anything that would show him how Thorin is really feeling. Ridiculous. Painful, he always decides after some time. Too much to bear, and he shouldn't be spending his time like this, for crying out loud. _Pining._ Big talk, about starting over and moving on – his heart still leaps whenever he sees the King, and most days, he resents it for that.

He makes a decision soon enough – the next time he gets the chance to talk to both the boys at once, he tells them about the planned holiday with his family, and that he's not sure he'll have access to proper wi-fi. It's a small lie, so much easier than telling them he really does need to spend that week alone, with nothing much but his thoughts to keep him company.

They complain and grumble, but he knows they'll be fine – _hates_ knowing that they'll be fine. Hates, yet again, being an adult about all this, knowing that he's doing what's right for him...

They promise to get in touch with each other on Christmas day at least, so that the boys can tell them how they liked the presents he's sending them – books, mostly, and a beautiful set of colored pencils in a luxurious wooden case, smooth brushes for Fili's paintings, a large two-thousand-piece puzzle depicting London as seen from the Eye... He may have gone a little overboard, but he can't imagine _not_ expressing his love through all of this. Oh, they'll be excited, of course they will be, and Balin has assured him that the gifts would be delivered on time...

 

And with that out of the way, Bilbo heads north. Packs into one suitcase instead of three, leaves his apartment behind without a hint of sentiment, and gets on an early morning train. He spends the whole of the extremely long ride gazing out of the window, cities and fields and forests dashing by, and he tries to figure out what he's been missing.

There's a piece of him – something he must have left in Erebor. He is capable of exciting himself just enough to get through the day and look forward to the next one, somewhat. But besides that... Nothing brings him _actual_ joy. He should have expected this to be tedious. He _did_ expect this to be tedious. Getting back on track. Reinventing himself, or whatever they call it these days. More often than not, the right decisions aren't the most pleasant ones, are they.

Yes, of course. He needs only to get through the rest of this blasted year, and then, somehow, miraculously, he'll be able to start over. For now, he'll get back in touch with his _actual_ family, tell only as much of his story as is absolutely necessary, and try and start seeing the events of it for what they really were. An adventure, yes. A lesson, maybe. A wonderful experience, for the most part.

He just needs to stop feeling like he left his heart in Erebor, and no matter how hard he tries, he'll never really be able to fill that gaping chasm in his chest with anything else.

-

 

Thorin hears Bilbo's voice for the first time since he left, and thinks he could have done without it. It happens after deciding to cut his office hours in half one day, and actually go help Fili with his homework early for once. He strides through the Palace hallways leisurely, accompanied only by Dwalin, and he realizes just how different the place is at this hour, different light, different people passing him and nodding to him. It feels... nice. Perhaps he should wander around at odd hours of the day more often.

He can afford it now – allow himself small luxuries. The court hearings have been going splendid, even more so with Fili by his side, listening, watching, asking questions. Thorin never takes him when he's faced with Bundushar, even though the boy begs him to. There's still some danger in that, a faint echo of everything the man had managed to disrupt at the back of Thorin's mind like a warning never to lose focus when he's dealing with him.

The results of the public surveys mostly show that people are feeling secure, no matter their King's lingering doubts. He's sold the way towards a swift recovery well, along with Dain. The foreign media seem to think so as well, commending them on their relentlessness, on the speed with which the courts act... All results of extremely hard work, but Thorin wouldn't have it any other way.

It's as though nothing has changed. It's as though the Palace has never been infiltrated, subject to an attack. Thorin notices Dwalin still scanning their surroundings with the most wary gaze – there's nothing he can say that will ever convince his Head of Security that everything that had happened wasn't in fact his fault. And so, after Thorin refused his resignation, Dwalin has made it his business to raise the security of the already impenetrable Palace about hundredfold. Thorin is just glad he keeps busy, to be honest. Even convincing him to let him out of the office at such an unusual hour was an ordeal.

The floor the Princes' quarters are on is swarming with security guards, though concealing their presence as best they can, looking almost ashamed when they run into the King and their boss. Tom and Bert aren't in their usual positions guarding the Princes' door – which is in fact slightly ajar – and for a second, Thorin's heart leaping in his chest mirrors the fright flashing in Dwalin's eyes, but then a burst of laughter is heard from the inside, and one of the guards explains that the boys' bodyguards are chatting with Bilbo alongside the boys.

Thorin comes to halt without really realizing it, his hand halfway to the door handle. He doesn't need to look to know that Dwalin gazes at him, warily and expectantly. Kili mutters something Thorin doesn't understand, and they all laugh again, and Bilbo's response follows. It's quiet, unintelligible, but it's still _him,_ the soft tone of his voice far too recognizable. Thorin stares dead ahead, in a daze. He takes a step forward, falters again.

“That's _so_ not right!” Fili exclaims, audibly amused, and Bilbo counters calmly, probably trying to convince him of something – Thorin is torn. On one hand, he feels the urge to go inside and hear what they're talking about, but then he's also horrified of disrupting that moment... and of facing Bilbo, yes, be it only via a computer screen.

“And what about _Indâd_?” Kili asks then, and something clenches in Thorin's chest, tight and painful.

Bilbo's voice sounds like the chords of a long-forgotten song to him, familiar and comforting, and yet so, so distant. In his daze, he gazes at Dwalin, and is met with worry only half-concealed under dutiful expectation. Thorin opens his mouth to speak, but then Fili says something which prompts Bilbo to laugh, light and musical, and the ghost claws around Thorin's ribcage squeeze harder. He hangs his head, and before anyone can say anything, he turns on his heel and marches away.

Dwalin catches up with him soon enough, and his silence speaks volumes about what he thinks of Thorin's decision.

 _You should go after him._ No one besides Fili will say it out loud, certainly not Dwalin, who has spent the last year profusely disagreeing with Bilbo's very presence (even more so after him and Thorin decided to let their relationship evolve beyond the realm of the professional). But they're thinking it. Deidre mentions Bilbo often, seemingly harmlessly, in passing, usually concerning the tasks only he used to know how to do and are now left unattended. Thorin's father has gotten a letter from Bilbo already, containing whatever they'd agreed on writing about, and he gets so excited about it, all but prompting Thorin to read it and spending hours in the Palace library writing a response...

They all miss him. The _Hurmulkezer_ as a whole misses him, because he'd somehow managed to become an intrinsic part of it, a cog without which the machine will never work as seamlessly again. Thorin doesn't need to be told that – he knows better than anyone. He doesn't need to think very hard to come up with the fact that _he himself_ is what keeps the machine running, and that in fact Bilbo was the one who kept _him_ going...

But, well, he'd rather not think about it like that, lest he gives himself a headache and a longing for something long gone, something he never really had in the first place.

 

He had better not spend what should be his bedtime like this. It's snowing again, not the blizzards Erebor has been having for the past week, but rather large, heavy snowflakes falling slowly, almost lazily. His father dozes off in his wheelchair by the window – Thorin had found him in the apartment when he arrived, and simply never asked him to leave, because it's always easier these days, having him near – and the dim orange glow of the tall lamp, the only source of light in the dark apartment, is kind to his face, evening out the deepest of his wrinkles, making him look younger, healthier.

Thorin looks from him to the screen of his laptop, and the tiny clock in the corner announces midnight, and his tired eyes announce that that's about enough. He does his very best not to wake Thrain as he wheels him away from the window and outside, to commit him to the care of his assistants, and yet, his eyes flutter open before they even reach the door. He turns his head slightly in Thorin's direction.

“Son,” he mumbles.

“It's late, _Adad._ I'm going to send you to your own bed, if that's alright.”

“Your mother...” Thrain sighs, shifting in the wheelchair a bit.

“What about her?”

His father straightens up, and Thorin stops to go look at him, only to find him frowning slightly, as if trying to remember something. It takes him a while to even notice that Thorin is there, and he gazes at him tiredly, the smile spreading over his face slow and soft.

“Nothing,” he replies quietly, “she has a peculiar way of sneaking into my dreams.”

Thorin blinks, but Thrain's smile never disappears, and so he decides to reciprocate at last.

“That sounds like her. Good night _Adad._ Big day tomorrow.”

“Ah, the parade. Your mother would have loved that. ...Good night.”

Nothing really changes at all, he decides after his father's faint complaining fades in the hallway ahead. His father had his tragedies, as did his grandfather – horrible losses and impossible odds have always accompanied the line of Durin. As have grand achievements and commendable victories, but one tends to focus on what one's currently going through.

Turning tragedies into victories, yet another specialty of his family. All things considered, this is a crowning example, so why can't he shake the feeling of losing anyway, on a very personal level?

He stands still and stares at the sofa on the far side of the room for the longest time, recalling all the times he'd come here and find Bilbo already sitting on it, waiting, reading, smiling. How he'd managed to fill this whole vast room with his presence, and make it seem cozier altogether.

How he'd left nothing, _nothing_ behind, besides a couple of plants in the kitchen, and a lot of empty spaces for no one else but Thorin to notice.

It's snowing still. Thorin does what he hasn't done in a while – he goes and puts on some music, to wisely fill the silence before it suffocates him. The first gentle, soothing tones of the piano carry with them a promise of being enough for the task, and so he wanders.

Tomorrow, he will stand alongside his father and nephews overseeing the annual  _Ohùfuk Ubzûnêl_ _,_ the parade that sets off the Christmas celebrations, and he knows better than anyone just how much the country needs to see that – them. Standing proud. _Victorious,_ yet again.

He is lulled to sleep by the subdued tones of one of his favorite sonatas, trying _not to_ wonder why he's never played it for Bilbo while he was still here, and in the morning, the snowing has stopped, and the silence is too heavy yet again.

Deidre arrives with his best uniform, neatly pressed, and lingers to water Bilbo's plants, chatting about this or that as Thorin dresses hidden away in his walk-in wardrobe, golden buttons pushed into place slowly, almost reluctantly. Today, the uniform might be the only thing keeping him standing.

Deidre sizes him up and down when he walks out into the living room, and they're blissfully alone in there, suggesting that there's still some time to prepare...

“Have you checked the pockets?”

“Have I – hm?”

He does so absentmindedly – Deidre isn't even looking at him, spreading a new tablecloth over the table for when the boys come here for dinner today... His fingers close around something, a paper folded into a small square. She looks at him at long last, and he sees in her eyes something he's not quite used to – a compassion mingled with... excitement?

“My _Ama_ always used to say that some news are best delivered a little late,” she says unusually cryptically, then, presumably speaking about the piece of paper Thorin is still turning over in his hands, “I found this a while ago on your nightstand. Didn't read it, just tucked it into the nearest pocket I could find. Almost steam-pressed it today along with these trousers. Sorry for that. But then again, not really.”

Thorin frowns at her in rather undiluted confusion.

“What is this?”

“Weren't you listening? I didn't read it. You probably should, though. I'm sure he meant for you to get this under vastly different circumstances, but, well. Here we are.”

 _Here we are._ Thorin still barely understands, but a tiny part of him is coming back to life, expectant and curious, and worried as well.

Without much ado – because what has he got to lose, really? - he unfolds the paper.

-

 

The silence is the most wonderful thing he could have wished for. Prim's husband Drogo picks him up at the railway station, and Bilbo feels better and better the further away from the small town they drive. It's like opening a picture book he hasn't picked up since childhood – it takes a while, but soon enough, he starts recognizing the view, the twists and turns of the country road, that lane of chestnut trees, the small lake, now completely frozen of course... His breath catches in his throat when he clambers out of Drogo's SUV and lays eyes on his childhood home at long last. The hedge has gotten a new coat of paint – several, probably – and the garden looks different, but other than that, it's the same old small house with walls of red bricks and tall windows, and something within him stirs at the sight, carrying him ahead with an almost childlike excitement.

“Welcome back,” Drogo grins at him and leads him inside, and Bilbo's heart is beating like crazy as he steps in. The smell of something delicious baking carries in the air, and the wallpapers are still the same, almost unbelievably so, and he hears voices from the kitchen, and then children laughing...

“Drogo? Is that you? Oh!” comes the excited call from Primula, and before Bilbo knows it, there she is, rushing into the hall, wearing an apron and oven mitts, and she resembles Bilbo's mother so much his knees almost buck.

“Bilbo! Oh, look at you! You look just wonderful! Welcome, welcome!” she laughs, enveloping him in a hug.

“Prim, my _god,_ I had no idea you were pregnant!” Bilbo blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, which prompts even more mirth.

“Oh, this guy? Sometimes I forget he's even there. Seven months now.”

“Seven months! And it's a boy? But this is amazing!”

“Oh, enough about that for now,” Prim cuts him off, all but holding him at arm's length to look at him, “you look like you could use a hot cuppa. Come on.”

 

And, well, this, all of this, really _is_ exactly what Bilbo needed, it soon turns out. Being manhandled a little bit into having a good time. Everything about the house still breathes childhood memories, even though Prim and Drogo have obviously put their spin on things. There's Cousin Eglantine to greet, with her little Pippin, and _his_ cousin Merry that she seems to be babysitting, both just two utterly wild four-year-olds who don't seem swayed by the presence of yet another adult in the slightest...

Bilbo is of course asked over and over again to tell everyone everything, and he does to his best knowledge, leaving out huge chunks of the story of course, making it sound utterly harmless. He can see Prim eying him somewhat warily, and he knows she'll definitely have questions later, but for now, mashed potatoes are being served, and everything else can take a back seat.

He first experiences the miraculous quiet when he crawls into bed – his old room has been repurposed into a nursery, and so he rests in one of the guest rooms upstairs, tiny and cozy. If he remembers correctly, it used to be his father's reading room, once upon a time.

With the blanket pulled up to his chin, the heavy taste of the spiced tea lingering on his tongue, he listens to the sounds of the house settling for the night – footsteps, indistinct chatter on the ground floor, creaking and cracking in the rafters as the wind picks up... He falls asleep easier than he ever would back in London, and dreams of absolutely nothing, thank god.

He wakes horribly late, and all but tiptoes downstairs, but is greeted so cheerfully it almost shocks him.

“You're on holiday, dammit,” Drogo remarks, not even lifting his gaze from the newspaper, offering a crooked grin, and Prim adds, “I think you're _supposed to_ sleep in, you know.”

“A foreign concept to me, you see,” Bilbo mutters, sitting down just as Drogo stands up and bids his wife farewell – he works for the local police department, and his shift has just begun.

“So,” Prim asks directly once they're alone, “what are your plans?”

When Bilbo doesn't answer right away – probably stares at her somewhat dumbly in fact – her expression changes into that of slight concern.

“I'm really glad you came here,” she tells him, “and I won't ask you what happened to you this past year if you don't want to say, but... look, stay as long as you need. Do whatever you want. Just... you really _do_ look like you need a holiday.”

Bilbo gazes at her for a moment, then hangs his head.

“I do need a holiday,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking – honestly, I don't know. I want to walk around a little bit, I think. If that's okay. I feel like I need to spend some time alone out in the fields, however depressing that sounds.”

“Bilbo...”

“I promise I'll try not to freeze to death and ruin your Christmas plans,” he chuckles, and her scrutiny eases off a bit.

“Whatever you think you need.”

 

Whatever he needs. He's got all the time in the world to figure that out, and he genuinely believes he might achieve that here... At first. He spends what might be hours outside, truly alone, striding past the outskirts of the town and as far as the river he used to ice-skate on when he was little, and into the forest beyond it, telling himself that if he spends enough time alone with his thoughts... _something_ will snap back into place. He'll discover _something._ Some way to put everything behind him.

He is granted access to the attic back at the house – it now stores what's left of his parents' possessions, and he sifts through piles of memorabilia, yet again searching. He doesn't speak much. Sits at the table with everyone and listens to local news and barely ever touches his laptop in the days leading up to Christmas. It's comforting, yes, for the lack of a better word. Peaceful. Quiet.

He hates it.

Secretly at first. Telling himself he is definitely on the right track. Telling himself it takes some getting used to, not having a set daily routine. Doing his very best to convince himself that regaining peace of mind is a long and painful process.

He's healing. Of course he is. Body and soul. Certainly better to do it here, than back in soggy, grey London. It's just that... Thinking about the future, and turning the past over in his head again and again, seems to come inevitably with having the time to think at all.

How will he ever find a good enough job, a job that will satisfy him and not just demand his daily presence? How will he ever stop looking at every single kid and imagining Fili and Kili? How will he ever... How will he ever find someone he could love the way he loves Thorin? How will he ever stop loving Thorin to begin with?

The problem is, he decides sitting at the very opulent dinner table on Christmas Eve, imagining what the Palace must look like all decorated this time of the year, he's always thought he could handle everything alone. Find answers for everything himself. His mother, alone in everything herself, probably taught him that, unwittingly or no.

When Prim accidentally walks in on him changing on Christmas morning and sees his scar, he decides to take it as an opportunity.

He's told his story so many times before, in different versions and at different points in time, and yet it always feels like the greatest ordeal, reliving the events. This time, he begins with an _'I fell in love.'_

-

 

_Your bed is too big. For one person, that is. God, alright, this isn't going the way I wanted it to, so I'll just start over. (I've ruined too much paper to actually start over, but alas) I'm here. In your apartment, alone. It's still a bit surreal to me. They don't tell you this in primary school, you know. Of all the dreams I've ever had, this has never even been a possibility. Astronaut, yes. Vet, very often. Buying plants for a King, never even mentioned. (The plants are doing fine, by the way. Don't let them die when I'm not here.)_

_But yes, here I am, and your bed is big and very Palace-like, and I'm writing this with the pen you gave me which has your little crest-thing on it, and I suppose my point is, I go days without realizing who I spend my time with. How lucky I am._

_I know you doubt the romantic aspect of writing letters, and it's far too late for me to attempt poetry. So the point of this is mostly unclear to me, and it probably will be to you. But it is common knowledge that some things are easier written than said. I've never considered myself a particularly brave person. Stubborn, yes. But not brave._

_And I fear a lot of things – have been fearing a lot of things lately. Maybe I'll wake up in my notably smaller bed tomorrow and find out that this was in fact really all a dream. Maybe I'll end up making a right mess of things if it turns out not to be a dream, and-_

_I'm losing track, and also running out of paper. I am so lucky to have found you, all of you. I miss you. They go on and on about how I've changed you – well, you know, regarding the boys and such – but no one ever stops to consider how much you've changed me. Had I more courage, I'd probably suggest some sort of a deal involving an eternity (Deidre seems to have told Fili that we have an “agreement”, maybe we should look into that). But all my courage is currently being wasted on not discarding this letter just like I did the others, and I'm also sleepy, so I'm going to finish now, nursing a faint hope that if I hide this well, you won't find it for weeks, months, years, and we'll end up laughing about it. Or you will. Whichever. It's late. I'll try to go to sleep now._

_Sincerely (if a bit nonsensically) yours,_

_Bilbo_

 

Thorin has never been in the habit of being too nostalgic. But then, he's never been in the habit of letting his hands shake slightly and losing focus so much that Deidre had had to snap him out of it by actually snapping her fingers in front of his face, and so perhaps it's only natural that he carries that small crumpled piece of paper with him everywhere he goes. Locks it in one of the drawers in the desk in his office, but the urge to go back to it and re-read it seizes him several times a day.

Anger, at finding it so very late, is pointless. Imagining what he'd tell Bilbo, about how wrong he was, _you were the bravest person I've ever known,_ is pointless. The letter bears no date, but Thorin deduces it was written when he was away in Italy – what might have been days, hours, before Bilbo got shot. It's all pointless, really, because _that_ particular incident obviously changed so much.

Or did it? Nothing ever really changes. Thorin's feelings didn't change, though he might have spent some time wishing they did. The time he spent with Bilbo, _really_ with him, allowed close and personal, was the best time of his life. Not in the cozy, vibrantly colorful way his memories of his siblings or his mother were – much more _real._ Solid and steady. Despite the fact that Bilbo had spent most of that time hiding things away from him, for which he'd thought was _Thorin's own good._

One day, much like the faces of his brother and sister, mother and grandfather, Bilbo's face, everything that he'd done, the way he'd smiled and laughed and moved and kissed, will be reduced to nothing more that fading flashes of color, short intangible pictures.

He hates it.

 _'Some sort of a deal involving eternity'._ Thorin was going to suggest that, or at least strive towards it. He was once going to take Bilbo to dinner, and then another one, and quietly hope that he'd chose to stay for a thousand more. He was once perfectly ready to change customs, rewrite laws, upturn the whole damn country if need be so that they could be together. He was once willing to believe that it could work, that he could make it work, that he could make anything work. That had been part of Bilbo's charm – he'd made Thorin believe he could do anything.

The Palace is decked out for the season, garlands of lights and jingle bells, wreaths of gold and red and green everywhere, a richly decorated tree in seemingly every corner, even the trimmed pines outside on the driveway are sporting faux electrical candles...

It's all very beautiful and bright, and Thorin walks past it all barely noticing.

He hosts the annual grand dinner on Christmas Eve in what can only be described as a highly absentminded manner. Fortunately this time, the Princes do his work for him, easily stealing the spotlight, Fili impressing more and more people by delving into discussions about a wide range of topics, while Kili charms his way into everyone's hearts with his laughter and bright eyes, spending half the evening either holding onto Thorin's hand and listening in on _his_ discussions, or making his way around the great hall, followed by his bodyguard and Balin, and greeting everyone with a highly professional look on his face.

A year ago, the boys had refused to leave their rooms for longer than a short appearance at the beginning of the event.

They all owe Bilbo so much. And Thorin desperately needs someone, anyone to know. If he had his way, the whole nation would be praising the Englishman for his achievements, for bringing with him a new hope for the royal family, for teaching the King himself how to live again...

“ _Adad,_ I need to tell you something.”

It's Christmas day, long past lunch, after a morning spent with the boys and their presents, and Thorin and his father are doing something neither of them have done in years – visiting the cemetery. It actually used to be a thing the old King and his son and grandson would do up until the revolution, to pay their respects and have their pictures taken standing in a grim line among the gravestones, everything covered in white, the shadow of the _Hurmulkezer_ far behind them like a particularly angry cloud. But now, Thorin just wants some time alone (as alone as it gets, surrounded by Dwalin's meticulous security detail) with his father, away from the colorful innards of the Palace and deeper into the silence of the slumbering park.

Thrain doesn't react, simply inclines his head, and his new electrical wheelchair whirring as it muddles forward is the only sound for the longest time.

“Remember when I was sixteen, and I refused to go to that one ball because all the girls there would expect me to choose a bride out of them-”

“And after a tedious night of saying no to every single one, my father said something along the lines of... what was it? 'What's wrong with you, why don't you like any of these girls?!'”

“And I said 'Because I don't like any girls', yes,” Thorin sighs shakily, but completely unexpectedly, Thrain chuckles.

“I remember, son. Almost caused your grandfather a heart attack. Good times.”

“Ah, not so much, _Adad._ ”

“Right, right, my apologies. What is this about? Were you worried I'd forgotten you ever admitted this to me, and would start pressuring you to get married now?”

“A little bit,” Thorin grins, and Thrain chuckles, so he continues much more lightly, “no. I was going to tell you – actually, I was going to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

They reach the cemetery and come to a halt so that Dwalin can send his men ahead, and Thorin doesn't open his mouth again until they're pacing (driving, in his father's case) side by side below the low branches, the quiet crackling of the snow reigning again.

“You always said that my duty came first,” he starts, and a frown ripples Thrain's forehead as expected, so he adds hastily, “I don't blame you for that. You were right. You've always known what was best. I just wonder – mother told us the story a hundred times. You going after her. Being with her, marrying her despite her upbringing and her social status. Traveling halfway across the world to get her.”

“I remember,” his father murmurs unusually quietly, and Thorin sees a somewhat hazy smile dancing on his lips.

“How did you know?” he breathes out, “obviously it was worth it in the end, but how did you know it would work out? That you would be allowed to be with her?”

They reach the tall tomb of the line of Durin, a gloomy slab of dark stone, looking particularly depressing now without the flowers and bushes that surround it for the rest of the year. _If I die before you, don't you ever dare bury me here, you understand,_ D í s used to say, _I want the sky above my head, not stone._

Thorin and his father simply gaze ahead for the longest time, until one of Dwalin's men brings the wreath to hang on the entrance. Neither of them is particularly keen on stepping inside, and so a couple of quick photographs are taken of Thorin placing the wreath, and then father and son are simply left to their devices for as long as they should please.

“Your mother wanted to travel, you know,” Thrain says out of the blue, and Thorin has almost forgotten he'd asked him a question, “she wanted to see the world, and only agreed to marry me because I promised her she could still do that from here. She never wanted the rules, or the restrictions, and I think she especially never wanted my father. But here she was, and she made the best of it. Did, in fact, end up seeing the world, thank god. Otherwise she would have left me after her first argument with your grandfather, I'm sure of it.”

“Oh, come on, _Adad,_ ” Thorin chuckles.

“It's true. She was very stubborn, your mother. If things didn't go her way, she damn well _made them._ But it was good. Like fresh breeze in the stale cave of this monarchy. I think your friend Bard's mother wrote that. I think. But yes, she was trouble. People ended up loving her, but boy, was she trouble.”

 _Reminds me of someone,_ Thorin thinks, and it takes him a while to realize he'd said it out loud. Thrain's gaze doesn't stray from the tomb.

“In answer to your question,” he says in a much more serious tone than that he used to talk about his late wife, “I didn't know.”

“You didn't,” Thorin parrots quietly.

“Of course not,” his father smiles broadly, the piercing beams of his eyes finally pointing his way, “for all I knew, we could have ended up banished, my title gone, my father hating me more than he already did. I'm sure he was tempted. But... it worked out. Honestly, I don't think I would have cared if it didn't, I loved her so much. I just wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Thorin's heart aches, throbs painfully for his parents and their grim fate, just one of many in his family. And yet, he must ask.

“But how? How did it work out? You didn't know if she would go with you, you didn't know Grandfather would agree, you risked everything.”

Thrain gazes at him as if he's expecting him to say more, but then he simply shakes his head, looking back to the tomb where his wife rests now.

“Didn't you hear me? I loved her,” he says simply, “and she was worth it. So I took a leap of faith.”

“That was... very brave of you, _Adad._ ”

“Brave?” Thrain laughs almost gleefully, “I wouldn't call it that. No, I was never brave. Just incredibly stubborn.”

Thorin breathes in. The cold air is prickling at his cheeks and almost burns in his throat – ever so slowly, he's regaining some sort of feeling, some sort of determination. He's going to end up being brave _and_ stubborn, and his mother would have been proud. His siblings would have been proud. He's not in the habit of being nostalgic, or believing in miracles, or living fairy tales, but a leap of faith he can do.

-

 

“You should write a book,” Prim tells him.

It's late, it's snowing again, and they're sitting in front of the fireplace, fortunately alone. The story has been told, relived for what Bilbo hopes might be the last time, and he feels like... He feels like it's not enough. By god, it's not enough. He realized it as he was telling it – he just sort of up and left. Of course he did, it was the right thing to do, but in hindsight, the decision was just... it came at such a strange time. Not at the _end_ of anything, no. He left Erebor behind when he most wanted to stay.

“Maybe I should,” he chuckles, then, “here, look.”

The photo album Fili had made for him for his birthday has been resting on his knees for a while now, and he finally opens it. For the first time since he returned to England. Prim shuffles closer to him, and together they turn the pages ever so carefully, taking their time with each photograph. And this... well, this is _actually_ reliving the story.

Marseilles, with its sun and sand and sea, and evening trips to town, seeing and buying and tasting the strangest things. That one week they spent with Fili's classmate Ori at his family's cabin, surrounded by the best the Alps had to offer, fog rolling off the peaks in the mornings, blue skies and fresh air. The summer residence where they spent weeks hiding away and yet somehow having the time of their lives.

Fili's artistic macro shots, Kili never staying still in _one single picture,_ the kitten _everywhere._ Thorin, rarely so, almost as if caught secretly. Bilbo can almost see Fili sneaking up behind him with his camera. Bilbo can see a lot of things very vividly, now. He describes why he'd loved the country. He describes its nature, its food and people, its politics and culture, and he sees it all so clear before his eyes. Prim only listens, very much in awe, and asks him the question he'd been expecting when they stop at a photo stuck on the very last page of the album. It's of him and the boys lounging on the beach in Marseilles, colorful parasol and all, and Bilbo can't for the life of him remember who took it, but it doesn't matter. Kili's reading something out loud, mouth open and his hand in the middle of a wild gesture, while Fili draws in the sand with his finger, and Bilbo... Bilbo is looking towards the camera, smiling lightly, looking slightly sleepy but very definitely miles away from the sight he sees every time he looks into the mirror in the morning these days. Tanner and somewhat younger.

“How did you ever give this up?” Prim mumbles, and Bilbo stares at the picture for a very long time before answering.

“It wasn't easy. At some point, it stopped being all sunny beaches and lazying around, you know, right after this I got tangled up in that whole big mess and ended up... well, the way I am now, I mean...”

“No, yes, I get that. But Bilbo,” she tells him softly, “when we were kids, you were always the one running away on adventures, remember? Past the river, past the forest. God, you used to be unstoppable. I think it's amazing that you did this – that you just got up and left for a foreign country, and learned a new language, and saw things most of us only dream of.”

“And then I came back.”

“And then you came back,” she chuckles, “isn't it funny? The books never write about the heroes once they come back home from the adventures. Look, you came here to regain some peace of mind, I presume?”

Bilbo fiddles with the sleeves of his sweater, gazing from her into the fire, smiling uneasily.

“I was hoping for that, yes.”

“You won't find it here.”

“Huh?” he gasps, looking at her equal parts surprised and offended.

“You have the same look you had when they fired you from that boarding school. Yeah, I remember. You used to walk around like a zombie. Because you'd lost something you'd thought might be your big break, your Mum used to say.”

“Oh, well, you see,” Bilbo smiles to himself bitterly, “I _know_ I lost my big break. After Bree, after Erebor.”

“And... what?” she retorts, “are you just going to sit here, spend your life _walking in the fields_ and reminiscing?”

“Now, Prim-”

“I've never seen you as happy, as alive, as when you were telling me about your Erebor. Look, we haven't seen each other in a while so I might be crossing a lot of lines here, but you should... I don't know. At least _think_ about going back there. Don't – don't _rot_ here in England.”

“It's not that simple-”

“Yeah, I know, it's _never_ that simple. Except for when it is. Think about it. And another thing – I think you should stay here until New Year's.”

“What – eh?” he poses yet another eloquent question. He's quickly getting lost in his thoughts _and_ the conversation.

“Being alone doesn't do you good,” Prim declares firmly, “and I want to see to it that you eat properly.”

She resembles Bilbo's mother so much in that moment, not by looks but by the relentless determination. He finds he's just a little bit speechless.

“I...” he tries.

“It's decided. Give me your dirty laundry, you're staying another week.”

The burst of laughter comes entirely unexpectedly, and she laughs as well, and... Bilbo stays another week. Prim is right, he hates the idea of returning to the city only to watch the grand New Year's celebrations and never really feel like a part of them. And... he has a lot to think about.

She doesn't pressure him with questions and life advice again, but her words have wormed their way into Bilbo's head quite successfully, of course. _It's not that simple,_ a part of him chants over and over again. _You did the right thing by leaving,_ shouts another.

But... well, that's it. He left when he needed to. Who's to say he can't return, when he needs to?

 

In the summer, maybe. Just to... eh, see the sights, drive around the countryside in a rental car and stay in a hotel in the capital. Or in five years' time, rent an apartment in the busy center of Erebor and find a job as an English tutor. Or in three weeks, surprising Fili for his birthday...

The next couple of days are spent in wild – and largely ludicrous – speculations like these. It's fun, in a way. Gives him something to think about. But a part of him, quieter than the rest, knows he's actually feeding that hope of a possible future that might involve Erebor. When he was leaving, he wanted to tell every single one of his friends, Fili and Kili, tell _Thorin, 'I can't imagine spending my life without you. I can't imagine never seeing you again.'_

He can't imagine much at all. _Walking around like a zombie._ Fitting, yes. Finding a menial job, buying groceries every three days, spending holidays here at the family house...

It's terrifying.

It's terrifying, it's terrifying, it's terrifying.

He realizes that standing over the kitchen sink, helping Prim peel onions, and only half-listening to the local news, currently broadcasting the story of an old man who died in his home and no one even noticed until days later, because no one ever visited him. He'd lived in the town his whole life, used to sell insurance and used to have a wife, and he _died alone in his home without anyone noticing._

Bilbo can't be like that. He can't spend the rest of his life in England, trying to teach grammar to uncooperative teens. He can't stop now – there's still time. There's still time to experience a big break. No, to grab at a big break passing him at high speed, tackle it to the ground and never let go. He's thirty-five, for crying out loud, not eighty and barely breathing. He _needs_ a future. He needs to have something to look forward to. He needs to stop staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror and thinking of endings, because it's too early for endings.

In the past year, he's been shot, threatened, lied to, investigated, wired up, taught how to shoot and slapped in the face by feelings for a King, and yet none of those were half as terrifying as the realization that a large part of him has become perfectly ready to spend the rest of his life sitting around and reminiscing, yes, exactly like Prim said.

He needs to breathe again. He needs that thrill again, the thrill of quitting his job overnight and packing his bags and leaving for the unknown. He'd hoped that he would _find himself_ in Erebor, and... he did. Oh god, he did.

And then he went and left himself behind.

 

The New Year's fireworks light up the sky in abundance even here in the middle of nowhere, and Bilbo cheers alongside Prim and Drogo, toasting with them, thinking about Erebor the whole time. The Palace must look absolutely wonderful, blazing bright, and the Princes... God, he's barely spoken to them at all during his stay here. They'd thanked him for his Christmas presents and then they had that one short chat in the evening a couple of days ago, but that's it...

The desire to see them, right now, almost knocks him off his feet, and he drowns it in the champagne, and wakes up very late the next day, feeling incredibly hungover (the result of his painkillers not really mixing well with alcohol) and incredibly alive.

He eats his breakfast reading the e-mails with the well wishes from the Palace, and its employees and his friends personally, and he composes a quick one himself to Balin, inquiring about speaking to the boys. Peels the potatoes, discusses this and that with Prim and Drogo... Only finds the three missed calls when he trots up to his room to change for a walk in town.

They're all from Fridda. They've been texting back and forth fairly regularly, but spoke only once or twice. He dials her number with an excitement he didn't know he could feel anymore.

“Bilbo?!”

“Hey! Is this a good time? Happy New Year!”

“And a very happy New Year to you! I've been trying to call you since it aired! Have you seen it?”

His heart makes a funny little leap.

“Have I seen what?”

-

 

Grand speeches, yes, yet another thing his family have always excelled at. His grandfather was known for his almost cruel deliverance of the truths nobody wanted to hear. His sister would speak long and convincing about human rights. His father used to be excellent with the media in his time, balancing out the necessary and the amusing. And Thorin himself... Thorin has always believed in simplicity. No sugarcoating, no diversions, no toying with words, just saying things as they are. He's been writing his own speeches ever since he became King, only ever running them by his staff writers, and this one is no exception.

The New Year's address happens at noon – he's been awake since very early in the morning, and despite the slightly chaotic morning preceding it, he's staying calm. So far. Besides the editors, his father and Balin, Bard Ibindikhel is the only other person who knows what the speech will contain – Thorin made the decision because he needs someone of Ibindikhel's caliber to start working ahead on reining in the uproar when it inevitably arises.

Watching Bard's face change as he read to the very end of the speech was a thing of beauty – for once, the eager journalist's shock and excitement were a good thing to see. He started working seemingly the second he finished reading, not even stopping for a second, and Thorin merely agreed with every suggestion thrown his way, giving the man full control of the situation. Anyone else would have doubted him. Anyone else would have pointed out that the process with Bundushar and the others is barely over, and that the country doesn't need yet another shock. Anyone else would have called Thorin reckless and raving mad.

His father had called him brave, and as far as he's concerned, that's all that matters.

The first couple of paragraphs of the speech are an acceptance of the fact that Erebor will never have it easy. That there will always be Bundushars and Karkâls in the world, disruptors of peace, people who care for nothing but their personal gain. But Thorin doesn't hesitate to remind his people how they've always dealt with their enemies – swiftly and mercilessly.

He expresses his hopes that the country's collaboration with the EU will move towards something much less stressful. He talks about retaining the historical currency 'for a while longer', and about the need to believe in the possibility of stability even in the most trying times. Thanks Erebor's people for supporting the Crown in such times. Promises never to waver, and asks his people to never lose faith in return.

And at last, he paints the future. Not in bright colors, but as a constant struggle, everyday hard work with the sweetest reward. Sees Bard and Balin with Dwalin hovering in the far corner of the room, takes a deep breath, and reads the very last three paragraphs for the camera.

 

The phones start ringing seemingly the second he finishes. He is whisked off immediately into a meeting with Bard, setting up a time and date for a press conference, setting up anything that needs to be set up... People question him still, of course, will probably do nothing but question him from now on, but he's taken a leap of faith, and he's falling at the speed of light now, and he can only hope he will get to land somewhere nice.

But he's not done yet. No, everything is only just beginning for him, starting anew, and he must use this drive before it wears itself out.

He only gets to see the boys that day because he cancels on about twelve different journalists and summons them to his office, something he hasn't done in ages. They're both beaming, and nod excitedly as he explains to them what lies ahead, and what he'll need from them. It is all, yet again, so easy in their eyes. So effortless, so exhilarating. He'll need that point of view from now on, and he will need a lot of it.

And because it's them, he tells them why he really did it, what prompted this bout of bravery, or rather who. Their smiles never dim for a second, and after they've both agreed to support him in any way necessary, Fili finally, finally poses the question Thorin has been asking himself every day: “ _Now_ can you go after him?”

-

 

Bravery. Honesty. Loving yourself. Bilbo does his damnedest to translate the bulk of the speech, and these are among the words he catches. Makes him proud, really. Or would, if he weren't sitting in front of his laptop completely frozen. His mouth might be hanging open a little bit, to be honest. Thorin finishes, and he hits replay immediately, listens to the speech about a hundred times, listening intently some, staring at the screen with unseeing eyes the others.

It fills the news pretty quickly, and will continue filling them for some time, probably. _'Openly Gay Monarch Jumpstarts New Year In Style',_ and _'The Coming-Out Of The Century!'_ among the best. Thorin's face is everywhere when Bilbo returns to London, and he's – he's proud. Yes. Good word. Coming out in front of the whole world is the most reckless thing he could have possibly thought of, and he did it anyway. Bilbo does himself a favor and stays well away from the tabloids, as well as the discussions, anything that might be negative in any way, really.

He still can't believe Thorin is willing to deal with all this. Religious groups will probably try to discredit him. How many world leaders will turn away from him? How many late night shows will he have to attend, explaining himself over and over again? There are times when Bilbo gets nervous and nauseous for him by proxy.

But... he's not a part of this, is he? Not really. He is a world away, metaphorically and otherwise, and nobody knows that he's the one Thorin spoke to when he talked about how _'honesty is liberating'_. He imagines himself by his side in all this, right now, and he... well, he should feel glad he's well away from it all, but instead, he walks through London with a quiet sort of yearning tugging at his heart.

“He did this for you,” Fridda had told him, and he'd strained himself not to laugh, because no. If anything, Thorin had done this for himself. And a good thing too. He will spend his life being brave now, being in the spotlight and being the voice of something so, so important. He's given hope to so many people, Bilbo included. Hell, he'll probably have his own t-shirts and mugs come next month. The Queen has already expressed her support, the first one ever, and there is talk of a parade, or some such nonsense...

This Thorin is so detached now from what Bilbo once knew. So, so far away. An idol, an icon, on a pedestal so high no one will ever see to the top...

It hurts Bilbo deeper than he cares to admit.

 

The invitation, along with Balin's explanatory e-mail, comes shortly before Fili's birthday. He's been carrying the date around with him as a sort of last waypoint – beyond that, his future was always uncertain. Well, until now.

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_You are hereby invited to the Hurmulkezer Gala, on the 23 rd of March on the Premises of the Royal Palace of Erebor. Black tie required. Please RSVP.' _

He stares at the very familiar gold-rimmed paper and text for the better part of his afternoon. Balin wrote to him explaining that the event has been moved to serve as a celebration of the recent events, and that they would love to see Bilbo, provided he can make it, et cetera, et cetera... He's spent so long thinking he'd wasted his chance. That he'd never had a chance in the first place. That his future would consist of... trying to come up with an agreeable future. What with all that's happened now, returning to Erebor has been feeling more and more like a dream. Come true? Or just unattainable?

“You have to come!”

“Yeah, Bilbo, it'll be really great. And you already have a tux!”

The boys have called _him,_ and at a very unusual hour at that, rather late, but he's not complaining. Not complaining in the slightest. He looks from them to the rivulets of rain rolling down his window, and he thinks, _bravery._

“I just might,” he breathes out at last, and Kili squeaks ever so happily, while Fili simply reclines in his chair, somehow managing to both smirk contentedly and steady his brother so that he doesn't tumble off his own chair in sheer excitement. The boys exchange a strange look then, one Bilbo can't quite decipher, but just as Kili is about to say something, Fili cuts him off.

“I tried asking Thorin if we could have the Gala on my birthday, but he said it was too soon.”

“Well, that _is_ too soon,” Bilbo chuckles, “but gosh, your birthday is just around the corner! How will the celebrations be going, then?”

“You'll see!” Kili exclaims then, and Fili frowns at him menacingly, shushing him rather harshly, oddly enough.

“I'll take a lot of photos for you,” he continues, “it'll be fun. I hope. Yeah, we'll have lunch at _Indâd_ _'s_ apartment, it was my idea. And then Kili has that play, so we'll go to that. And then there's the official dinner, so I'm going to have to be there...”

“I'm sure it'll be fun,” Bilbo smiles, though his chest is clenching a little bit at the thought – he can see it all so clearly, can see _himself_ in there with them so clearly... Ah, no matter.

“Fili,  _darûn!_ ” Kili cries then, and Fili's eyes widen.

“ _T_ _akât_ _!_ ”

“But-”

“Boys?” Bilbo inclines his head, “what about the time? Do you have somewhere you need to be? I'd hate to learn you haven't finished your homework yet, it's so late!”

“No, no, we have time,” Fili waves his hand almost frantically, “we want to talk to you for a while longer, right Kili?”

“Right,” the younger Prince beams.

“Tell us how you are! How's the weather?” Fili chatters entirely too brightly – _something_ is going on, and Bilbo isn't close enough to figure out what.

“It's... eh, ghastly, actually. Has been raining since the morning. Wouldn't step foot outside, to be honest with you...”

The doorbell rings then, and Bilbo groans.

“Oh, sorry, that's the door. I have no idea who it might be at this hour. I'll just pretend I'm not home-”

“No!” both boys cry out in unison, and Kili's hands fly to his mouth immediately after as if he's said some sort of swear word, while Fili regains his composure very quickly, declaring: “You should go get that. We'll wait.”

“Ah, no, that's alright, I'm sure it's nothing, really...”

The doorbell rings again, and Fili leans forward.

“Bilbo,” he says somewhat strictly, while Kili next to him is all but biting his knuckles for some reason, “go get the door.”

Bilbo tries to respond, but his words get lodged in his throat, and so he simply frowns powerfully. His brain is trying to tell him something, and his heart as well, judging by its hammering against his ribcage, but he's not very responsive right now.

“I should...” he mumbles.

“Go!”

“Alright, alright, you two! Good god. I'll be right back, stay put.”

 

He clambers out of his bed and throws on the nearest thick sweater to fight off the momentary cold when he does in fact get the door. Who on earth could it be, really, at nine o'clock, in such dreadful weather, honestly...

He'll always remember the days, minutes, seconds leading up to that creak of the door opening in black and white; dull, lifeless, cold. They tell you about hearing violins, about your heart swelling so much it might burst, about getting a head rush, about so many wonderful things... The truth of Bilbo's situation is, he suffers a nasty shock when he opens the door, because he almost steps on one of the neighborhood strays, and it hisses and meows loudly and dashes past him inside the apartment, dripping wet. He turns after it to sputter curses, but then his thinking catches up with his eyesight, and he turns back to the figure standing in front of him.

The rain is an annoying, persistent drizzle, and it soaks into the lapels of Thorin's coat and his hair. He's smiling ever so lightly, and he's there, and he's real, and wet and tall and pale and _real._

“Hello,” he says, and Bilbo's response is a desperate little sound, something between a gasp and a 'Huh', and his hand flies to his mouth, much like Kili's did just seconds ago...

“The – the boys,” he manages, his voice hoarse, “they told me to... to get the door, I-”

“Yes, we had a deal,” Thorin replies softly.

“A deal,” Bilbo repeats lamely.

“It was Fili's idea. He wanted you back for his birthday,” Thorin explains, the gentle smile never disappearing, and Bilbo is afraid that if he looks away from his face, the image will disperse, the rain will wash the colors away.

“But you... I...” he tries and fails epically.  
“I let you walk away, _again,_ ” Thorin speaks tenderly but firmly, “and my being here is... admitting defeat, really. I love you. I love you despite and _for_ everything that you've done, and I will love you still, whether you decide to come with me or not.”

Bilbo is so cold. Oh, he is so cold. His mind isn't working properly, and his heart seems determined to drum its way out of his chest.

“I was,” he starts, but it comes out as nothing more than a sigh, and so he starts again, “I was going to accept. The invitation. I was going to come to the... the Gala.”

“Good,” Thorin murmurs, “however, I don't think I was ever going to wait that long.”

“You shouldn't be here,” Bilbo blurts out, and Thorin's shoulders slump immediately – something within him finally wakes at this moment, and so he stumbles forward, adding quickly, “no, I mean – here. In the open like this! Thorin, you – do you watch the news?! What if someone sees you?”

Yes, fussing, his safe haven whenever his mind is otherwise engulfed in utter chaos. Thorin laughs, and the sound cuts deep – Bilbo's heart leaps, and a burst of laughter escapes him as well, before he can swallow it. Rain is now pouring down both their faces, he can sense it finding its way down his neck and under his clothes, but he so, _so_ doesn't care.

“I do watch the news,” Thorin declares, “call me naïve, but I'm hoping nobody will expect to find me here, of all places.”

 _Least of all me,_ Bilbo thinks. And that's it. The unexpected. The exhilaration. Coming alive again. It took him so long to realize that it was what he needed, and here's Thorin, _providing that_ for him. He hangs his head, looking at the tips of their shoes, watching Thorin's move closer.

“Admitting defeat,” Bilbo mutters, and chuckles to himself, “what on earth were you fighting?”

“This,” comes a simple reply, “coming here for you. You needed some time-”

“And I got it.”

 _Bravery, bravery._ He looks up. Thorin's eyes are large and worried, and as blue as ever, and when Bilbo takes his head in his hands, his cheeks and beard are wet under his fingertips, and that's all he needs.

“I got my time,” he says, “and you got yours. I won't say I never should have left, but I never should have doubted everything... you, the way I did, and I'm sorry. I was always going to return to you. It just took me some time to realize that. I'm sorry I made you wait.”

“You know I don't like it when you apologize too much,” Thorin murmurs, their faces now inches apart, and Bilbo smiles, pressing a quiet 'Sorry' to his lips along with a kiss.

And so they stand there with the rain soaking them, and maybe they'll write stories about this, maybe they won't. Maybe this is nothing but a fairy tale, but Thorin's beard scratching at his face is the only sensation that matters right now, his hands holding Bilbo in place and holding him together, too. He breathes only for Thorin and Thorin for him, and it's familiar, and warm, and everlasting, and he lets himself be swept off his feet, quite literally, yet again, and nothing has ever felt better.

“If you can't do this...” Thorin starts immediately after they first break apart, and Bilbo _can_ do this. He _will_ do this. And so he shuts him up by another kiss before he allows any more doubt into the debate.

The truth his, he doesn't know if he can, not really. He only knows he wants to. He doesn't know what will happen in the next minutes, he doesn't know how life will be from now on, but now that it includes Thorin, and Fili and Kili and Erebor again, he knows he's not afraid anymore, but rather very, very excited.

And most importantly, he's quite ready for another adventure.

*****FIN*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. The finish line. I really, sincerely hope it was an enjoyable one. This fic has been a massive, ginormous, all-consuming part of my life for a long time now, and I still can't quite believe it's over. This ending is one I've always been striving towards. It is very rom-commy to be honest, and I can only hope it wraps up the story satisfyingly. Throughout this chapter, I've constantly thought about everything that I will be leaving unsaid. Funnily enough, I wanted to write the fic like this in the very beginning - switching between Thorin's and Bilbo's POVs. So I'm very happy I got to try that out. But yeah, this last chapter got extremely long because of it, and yet I feel like I didn't say everything I wanted to, left some plot points unexplained, didn't spend as much time with some characters as I'd wanted to.  
> Alas, here we are. I want to thank you all for the amazing, amazing support you've shown me. It is not false modesty when I say that this story would have gotten nowhere without it. Reading your enthusiastic and thought-provoking comments, interacting with you and seeing the excitement this story has managed to entice, really kept me going. THANK YOU for all your feedback, advice, fanart and positive vibes. <3 And a great THANK YOU to [Laura](http://archiveofourown.org/pseuds/littlebigspoon), who was the most wonderful beta for the majority of this story :')  
> I AM considering a sequel. Have been for a while now. As far as I'm concerned the big bulk of the main storyline is over and done with now, but I'd certainly like to discover what follows after that fairy tale ending. But for now, I need some rest, a good night's sleep, and a celebratory batch of blueberry cupcakes :')

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Nothing Gold Can Stay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182381) by [anuminis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anuminis/pseuds/anuminis)
  * [Blueberry Muffins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812262) by [nuriwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuriwan/pseuds/nuriwan)
  * [Admitting Defeat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849933) by [KuroCyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroCyou/pseuds/KuroCyou)
  * [Nothing Gold Can Stay [The Complete Soundtrack List]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637392) by [shawarma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawarma/pseuds/shawarma)
  * [Nothing Gold Can Stay Fan Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811393) by [TheLadyZephyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr)




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